


Something to Worship

by starbird1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor and Sansa reunite. Post-ADWD. Sandor's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Quiet Isle

CHAPTER 1 – ON THE QUIET ISLE 

The winter was relentless. Many froze, more starved, and all were trapped, including Sandor Clegane. One evening, while another gale blew curtains of snow over the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother confided in Clegane the nature of Brienne of Tarth’s visit. Already driven half-mad with boredom and the strict rationing of wine, Sandor cursed the Elder Brother roundly, bellowing about his interference and raging inside at his own powerlessness. He stalked out of the cell in a violent mood, wanting to punch the walls and drive his fists through the wooden beams until the entire place crumbled into a ruin. Then he wanted to piss on it. He was burning with anger when he flung open the door and stomped out into the snow. The cold was an affront, the snow infuriating. Sandor barreled through the drifts to the stables. Riding Stranger along the few passable paths between buildings would clear his head. Stranger, however, snapped at him and balked at leaving the relative warmth of his stall. As he gave a dismissive jerk of his head and turned back toward his hay, Sandor’s rage crested and crashed. If Stranger breaks a leg, we'll both be bloody done for. Misery overwhelmed him and he sank into the hay in the neighboring stall.

A lifetime of frustration shook him. Before he was even aware of it, tears flooded out of Sandor’s eyes and sobs wracked his body. He could do nothing. He was nothing. Not even his horse would obey him. He hadn’t cried since he’d talked to the Elder Brother after having his wounded leg treated. Now he was sound of body again and maddeningly sober. Who knew how long the winter would last? Maybe the rest of his life. And the Elder Brother had kept this Brienne’s visit a secret from him until long after he could possibly act.

Sandor lay on his back, feeling an insurmountable inertia. He’d never wanted anything like he’d wanted Sansa Stark. She was by turns stubbornly naïve and shockingly sweet. He, in turn, had growled and threatened and put both his sword and his dagger to her throat. He’d stolen a song from her. That night had gone hideously wrong. Sandor had never allowed himself the hope that she might care for him, but he didn’t think she’d refuse his offer of escape. Her objections to his behavior still stung but his own actions caused his insides to twist most uncomfortably. His inactions, too, as he recalled his silence as the members of the Kingsguard beat her on that little bastard’s orders.

Sandor yanked a horse blanket off a hook on the wall, covered himself, and turned on his side. The hay scratched at his face and hands but it was nothing to the chafing of his memories. He shielded himself from none of it. He’d told the Elder Brother much, too much, apparently, but there was more. Those little details, like the way she’d screamed at her father’s execution, the brightness of the blood from her split lip, the feel of her hand on his cheek, those were all his. Sandor replayed their every interaction in his mind and allowed his feelings, both pleasant and painful, to roll over him.

Stranger settled in his stall and the wind whistled through the cracks in the roof. Since he’d stormed out without a lantern, the darkness in the stable was absolute. Sandor saw all he needed to in his mind, though, and, hours later, spent, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

As winter wore on Sandor filled his time by practicing with his sword, clearing snow, and thinking about Sansa. He could look on the past if not with detachment, at least without agony. What was done was done and, despite his regular attendance at services, he did not truly believe the Seven would intercede on his behalf.

The winter lasted four years. After a six-month thaw, the roads, while perilously muddy, were at least navigable. Sandor turned his thoughts to his options: stay or go.


	2. The Village

CHAPTER 2 – THE VILLAGE

Covered in mud, tired, hungry, Sandor threw himself out of Stranger’s saddle and stalked toward the inn’s stables in a foul mood. How many more of these worthless villages will I have to search before I find her? If she's even still alive to be found! The stable boy shrank away from him, nodding mutely to Sandor’s gruff instructions.

He came around the front of the building and saw a couple about to enter. The woman chanced to turn aside and the shock hit him in the chest like the hoof of a flailing horse. Her. Her hair was hidden beneath the hood of her cloak but her face, pale and lovely as ever, was as he remembered it. Her mouth fell open in surprise and she paused, causing her companion to look at her. Sandor, frozen in place, fumbled for something to say. He was going to go to his knee and pledge his sword to her then and there but the man next to Sansa stepped forward. Littlefinger. The corner of Sandor’s mouth twitched. He’d known, of course, that Petyr Baelish was Lord Protector of the Vale but to find him here with Sansa . . . His fingers flexed toward his sword.

“My lord.” Sansa stepped toward him and looked into his face. She seemed mildly perplexed but otherwise calm.

  
“Lady Sansa.” His guts writhed. He’d spent so long thinking of finding her that he’d never really considered that she might not want to be found. By him. She didn’t look at all disturbed by Littlefinger’s company.

 

“Your arrival is unexpected indeed,” intoned Littlefinger as he stroked the end of his pointed beard. “Are you a gift from our sweet Cersei?” His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  
“No, I don’t serve the Lannisters.”

  
“Ah, so the rumors are true, then. One never knows what to believe.” Baelish fixed him with an appraising look. “What brings you to the Vale, Clegane? You may not serve the Lannisters but I do.”

  
Sansa’s eyes hadn’t left him, though he would not return her stare. He knew Littlefinger was far more observant than he liked to let on.

  
“If you’ve heard one rumor, you’ve probably heard another. King’s Landing was slipping out of the Lannisters’ grip before winter came.”

  
“A grip is easier to maintain on a leash than an entire city, one would think.” Littlefinger paused, gauging Sandor’s reaction. “Desertion is such an ugly word.”

  
Sandor kept his expression neutral. He’d witnessed years of Littlefinger’s slimy probing, using his words to incite and inveigle. “So is kidnapping.”

  
Littlefinger laughed without mirth. “As you said, King’s Landing was becoming a dangerous place."

  
Sandor did not reply.

  
"If you haven't been sent by Cersei, and it's a fine thing for you that you're weren't, you know what she's like when she's kept waiting, then who sent you?"

  
"No one. I'm my own master now."

  
"How very impressive," Baelish answered in a tone dripping with sarcastic condescension. "And where are you going?"

"North."

  
Littlefinger's lips pressed into a thin line. He seemed to consider something for a moment. Sandor assumed he was trying to determine to which northern lord Sandor meant to offer his sword. It came as a small surprise when he said, "The Vale is 'north.' Perhaps you might consider being of service here. At least until you decide to take yourself elsewhere, being your own master and all."

  
"I won't serve you, or the Lannisters through you."

  
"Such principles. Such . . . honor." Littlefinger stretched his face into a grin. "I'm sure we could find a place for you in our household that would not involve your usual skills."

  
Sandor was certain a raven would leave for King's Landing within the hour, and that Littlefinger was detaining him. Not that anyone sent to apprehend him would reach the Vale with anything approaching speed . . . He stole a glance at Sansa. She tipped her head just slightly.

  
With some words about not staying long, Sandor accepted Littlefinger's offer and so found himself back in Sansa’s company, if at arm’s length. Littlefinger apprenticed him to the smith, an old man who, while still strong, lacked the stamina for all of the metalwork the castle needed. The man, Rogald, was glad of some company as the gossip had gotten stale over the winter. Sandor’s arrival seemed to grease the old man’s jaws and he talked from dawn to dusk, as Sandor pounded away on the anvil, making crooked horseshoes, useless kitchen implements, and misaligned tools. Rogald nodded over everything Sandor made, saying, “Well done, well done,” without leaving his stool by the fire where he leaned against the wall, hands clasped on his ample belly, acquainting Sandor with the minutiae of the Vale’s domestic history. Sandor wanted to drive his hammer into the old man’s skull but every now and then he’d relay something interesting. Over time he heard about Sansa’s arrival under the name of Alayne Stone, the death of Harry the Heir, and, best of all, the Lord Protector’s rumored illness contracted from his late wife.

Sandor observed Sansa during meals and he misliked the proprietary manner of Littlefinger’s attentions to her, although Sansa herself did not seem to object. He watched in silence, wondering why he bothered staying. Every now and again he and Sansa met by chance and exchanged a few words, and Sandor felt he could endure the Vale a little longer. Even if he did leave, where would he go? Finding Sansa had been his goal, or so he’d thought. He realized now merely finding her wasn’t enough, and it was a daily frustration.


	3. The Godswood

CHAPTER 3 – THE GODSWOOD  
About a month after Sandor’s arrival, Littlefinger took to his bed with fever and Sansa came to the smithy with a request.

“My lord, will you escort me to the godswood? I would pray to the old gods for Lord Baelish.”

Sandor bowed his head and followed her silently to the stable, feeling a depression of spirit. I'll finally be alone with her and she'll be praying for fucking Littlefinger. Her calm courtesy was worse than the rejection she’d dealt him back in King’s Landing.

The stable boy bowed low and turned pink in Sansa’s presence. Her horse, a snow-white courser named Sugar, was brought out first, looking skittish.

“My lady, she’s afraid . . .” The stable boy glanced in Sandor’s direction and said no more.

Sansa took the reins and patted her horse’s nose, speaking softly. To Sandor she remarked, “It seems Stranger is as fearsome in the Vale as he was in King’s Landing. Perhaps I should mount before he's brought out.”

“Aye.”

“If you would . . .” She looked at him and he suddenly realized there was no mounting block. He moved toward her, horribly aware that the last time he’d touched her had been in her bedroom during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. She’d refused his offer of escape, preferring instead to stay in King’s Landing and marry the Imp. He fought back a wave of anger. He knew it was shame he should be feeling for how he’d treated her then and that cooled his ire.

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded and he put his hands on her waist. She was taller but still slim. He lifted her easily into the saddle and stepped away. Sansa led her horse a short distance away as the groom brought Stranger forward. Stranger’s coat was brushed and sleek, black as an open wound by night. He pulled against the reins and tossed his head. The groom looked terrified. Sandor realized it was he who scared him, not his unruly horse.

“Well done, boy,” he said gruffly. The boy sputtered his thanks and quickly retreated into the barn.

Sandor mounted and rode forward to where Sansa was waiting. She turned Sugar’s head and briskly trotted north. Sandor followed, lost in a flood of reproachful thoughts. It’s Littlefinger, he thought with pain. Trumped up lord or no, he can give her anything she wants. She has no shortage of admirers here, and no need of me . . . 

“George has a way with animals, does he not?” she said after several minutes of silence.

Sandor slowly came back to the present. There’s a George now? He cleared his throat. “Who?”

Sansa looked at him with polite concern. “The stable boy. I heard you tell him he did a fine job with Stranger. I’m sure the compliment pleased him.”

Sandor could think of nothing to say besides, “Bugger George,” but he kept that thought to himself and lapsed back into a sullen silence. His thoughts were a torment. Her company was a torment. He’d never thought it could be so but he longed to be away from her. In her presence, the memories of his behavior to her, and his pointless quest to find her, were the rawest humiliation. His cheek suddenly felt warm, his throat clogged by a huge lump.

At last, they arrived. The white trunks of the trees made it seem as though winter had returned. The tiny grove felt suffocating to Sandor. He dismounted and tried to shake the memories from his head. After tying Stranger’s lead to a tree, he turned toward Sansa. She was smiling and tilting her face up to the sun, enjoying the warmth. The lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He made his way to her with halting steps. He could not look into her face as he helped her from the saddle. What were you thinking, coming here? As he lowered her to the ground, she put her hands on his shoulders and for a moment they stood in an embrace. Tears stung his eyes and he looked away, over her head, wishing she’d go pray while his heart broke. Sandor clenched his jaw and muttered, “Bugger this.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” The concern in her voice broke him. He couldn't respond.

“Look at me.”

Stunned, he looked down. “I . . .” Sandor fought for anything to tell her and could only find the truth. “I’m sorry, little bird. I’m sorry I let them beat you, I’m sorry I didn’t . . . wasn’t . . . Now you’re married to the Imp. I . . . the dagger . . . in your room . . .”

He took a breath to stop the flood of words, which sounded pathetic to his own ears. He closed his eyes, too ashamed to see whatever shown in her face, and ground his teeth together, the corner of his mouth twitching. After a moment, he opened his eyes and was startled to find Sansa peering into his face. Her cheeks were flushed, setting off her blue eyes. She took his hand in both of hers, sending a jolt through him, and said, “You were willing to risk everything to take me from King’s Landing and keep me safe. It was very generous.”

Sandor snorted at the absurdity of anyone calling him generous. He struggled with his thoughts, distracted by the feel of her hands on his.

“Joffrey's knights had no right to beat you. Nor cause. You were just a young girl, then.” He looked down at their hands, frowning over the memory. Hers were too small to cover his, and her skin was pale and smooth where his was tanned and roughened by use.

“You were right about knights.” She let go of his hand and walked to stand in front of the heart tree. He looked after her feeling confused and somehow lonely. She bowed her head.

After a moment, as though she could feel his stare, Sansa looked over her shoulder and asked, “Would you like to pray with me?”

Sandor did not expect that. Months after his night in the stable, he eventually spoke again of Sansa with the Elder Brother, who had told him he couldn’t change the past, but he could examine it, learn from it, and use every former action that gave him pain as a marker to a more satisfying path. So that’s what he’d done during devotions. The gods had forsaken him long ago. If he was crawling back to anyone, it was going to be Sansa.

Sandor took a hesitant step forward. Then another. He paused when he was directly behind her and looked down on the pale skin at the back of her neck. He wanted to stay there, shielding her from whatever harm the world would do her. Perhaps between the godswood in front of her and him at her back, she might yet be saved. She had not wanted his saving when he’d offered it, though, so he stepped to her side.

Sansa glanced up at him quickly with a small smile. She bowed her head again and was silent for a moment. “I . . . I usually pray silently but, if you like, maybe we can pray aloud together.”

Sandor opened his mouth to reply but, finding nothing to say, just nodded. While Sansa prayed for seemingly every person in Westeros, his mind wandered. Eventually she mentioned her dead brothers and sister and Sandor became more alert.

“Fuck,” he said suddenly and turned toward her.

Sansa looked at him, surprised, and he said, “The she-wolf . . . Arya . . . she didn’t die in King’s Landing.”

“What?! Where is she?” Sansa’s mouth opened and closed as she struggled to comprehend.

“I don’t know where she is now. Dead, maybe. I last saw her a few months before the snows started.”

Sansa had spent years assuming Arya had died while she herself had been a captive of the Lannisters. Her hands started to shake slightly and tears welled up in her eyes. Sandor walked to the horses, retrieved a green woolen blanket and some red apples from Stranger’s saddlebag, and laid the blanket out on the grass by the heart tree. Sansa sank down on the rough wool, rested her hands in her lap, and looked up at Sandor with glassy eyes.

“Tell me everything,” she said. "Please."

Sandor outlined his flight from King’s Landing, his encounter with Arya, their escape from the Red Wedding, Arya killing the Tickler. He told Sansa of his attempt to goad Arya into giving him the gift of mercy but could not bring himself to repeat his words concerning her. He spoke of the Elder Brother and his time on the Quiet Isle. That part was easier.

As he spoke, he cored the apples and offered her pieces from the point of his knife. She plucked them off daintily and ate them while listening to him with rapt attention. Sansa asked few questions but expressions of pain, worry, empathy, and sadness passed over her face like shadows. When he finished, she looked down at her hands resting in her lap and remained silent.

Sandor didn’t know what she was thinking so he commented, “It’s late. We should head back before dusk falls.”

Sansa rose, gathered up the blanket, and stood staring at the ground, lost in thought, clutching the blanket to her chest. She once clutched my cloak like that. The memory was sour and he pushed it away. When Sansa didn’t move, he stood directly in front of her and looked down at the top of her head. Gently, he put his fingertips under her chin and raised her head. She looked at him numbly. He looked into her eyes for a moment and then took the blanket from her hands. He turned away to return it to Stranger’s saddlebag and, when he turned back, he was struck by how small she looked.

“It’s as though they’ve died again. All of them.”

Sandor took her by the elbow and led her to Sugar. “Come on, girl,” he said quietly. She looked so forlorn that he stopped and hesitantly drew her against him so her forehead rested on his chest. Her hands lightly gripped the front of his tunic and she shook as she cried. After a minute or two, Sansa stepped away. She sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingertips.

Sandor dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. She blotted the corners of her eyes. “Thank you.”

Sandor nodded. When she was ready, he put her in her saddle, mounted Stranger, and they left the godswood.

Sansa rode in a silence that eventually changed from sad to thoughtful. Sandor glanced at her every now and again but said not a word.

“Thank you for not sparing me the worst parts,” she said after awhile. Her shoulders were again square and her chin jutted forward just a little.

Sandor made a noncommittal noise in response and was relieved that she didn’t seem on the verge of crying again. He noted her strength with approval. He felt lighter, having told her. It was as though he’d been relieved of three sets of armor and, now that she didn’t seem so overwhelmed, he found he wanted to talk with her more, rather than flee her company as he had when they’d set out.

“Tell me,” he said as they passed an ancient oak, “why did you name your horse Sugar?”

“Because she’s the wrong color to be called Lemon Cake,” Sansa replied.

Sandor threw back his head and barked out a laugh, smiling for the first time in a long time.

*

A week later, Littlefinger’s condition worsened. Sansa was with him day and night, overseeing his care and offering what comfort she could. Rogald said the Lord Protector was delirious at the end, but Sandor knew, if that was the case, that Sansa would be the last person to put it about. She’d kept secrets before.

After Littlefinger died, a different kind of energy ran through the Vale. Sansa blossomed as the lady of the castle. There was an unrestrained cheerfulness in her air that spread to everyone around her. She was the soul of patience with her little cousin, Lord Robert, a whiny, sickly boy Sandor remembered from King’s Landing with distaste. He could not fault the boy for his devotion to his cousin, however, or hers to him. Lord Robert was now in her care until he came of age, according to the Lord Protector’s will.

Better still, Sansa pardoned Sandor from smithing duties and asked him to join the castle guard. He was able to see her every day, which made him feel better than he had in years. Suddenly the air was fresh with possibilities.


	4. Dinner with Sansa

CHAPTER 4 – DINNER WITH SANSA 

One day, in the yard, Sandor was practicing his swordsmanship, to the interest of a group of young boys, Lord Robert among them. The bravest of them came forward and asked if Sandor would spar with him. Sandor gave the boy a long look and, when he didn’t quail, nodded his assent. The boy let out a whoop and ran to get tourney swords. Sandor turned aside to hide his amusement. The boy, Nestor, returned, radiating excitement and exhibiting a springiness of limb found only in the young.

“Come on, Nes!” his friends shouted.

Sandor took his position and waited in silence. Nestor launched into an immediate and reckless attack that Sandor parried with barely a full turn of his wrist. The boy, undeterred, tried again and again and still again to land a hit. Sandor corrected his form and called out instructions as Nestor swung this way and that, broadcasting his next move with his shoulders and his eyes. Soon, all of the boys wanted to fight the infamous Hound and jostled to be next. One by one he faced them, until the only one remaining was Lord Robert, whose arms were trembling when his turn arrived. Sandor doubted he could hold even a tourney sword for longer than five minutes but found his stance, at least, was superior to those of his friends. Once Robert had to move, though, he was disjointed, clumsy, and lacking in both focus and self-confidence. "Don’t look at the ground until your opponent is laying there dead, boy,” Sandor growled at him after Robert cast his eyes down again.

“My arm hurts,” Robert began to say but Sandor cut him off with an abrupt, “Again,” and Robert took his place, if somewhat reluctantly. Throughout their next engagement, Sandor told him over and over to keep his eyes up and, for the most part, he did.

“That was better. You won’t be killed on the first swing, anyway,” Sandor said.

“That was better, Sweetrobin. Well done, and well done all of you.” Sansa walked into the yard. Clearly she had been watching them for some time. She was certainly a favorite, as the boys were eager to regale her with the finer points of their successes. Sansa nodded, smiled, and agreed that they would all be feared swordsmen before long. Then she sent them to get cleaned up before dinner. After the boys had run off, shouting and brandishing their swords at imaginary foes, she turned to Sandor.

“The boys are lucky to have such a renowned swordsman to teach them. I hope they didn’t try your patience too much.”

Sandor thought the boys would be cut down instantly if any of them were ever in a real battle but kept that thought unexpressed. Instead he said, “They need practice. All boys do.”

Sansa told him the meal would be served in an hour and he went to his room to shed himself of his armor. Once his squire, who he had only at Sansa’s insistence, had taken the armor to be cleaned, he sat down heavily on a stool and began to untie his boots. There was a knock on the door and, upon it being opened, two of the castle men entered bearing a large tub. Behind them were several washerwomen with buckets of water.

“Lady Sansa thought you might enjoy a bath after facing seven fierce knights in the yard, ser,” said one.

“Did she, now?” was all Sandor could think to reply, ignoring the “ser.” Some of the servants were friendly; others were still unsettled by his face and reputation. Soon the tub was full of steaming water and one of the grooms produced a cake of soap. Sandor looked at the tub. He had not had a true bath in months. The tub was larger than most so he fit into it without too much squeezing, although he could not get his knees below the water without his feet sticking out over the edge. Still, the warmth felt good on his muscles and he scrubbed as best he could with the soap.

He arrived at dinner and looked for Sansa, as he always did.

“You cut your hair!” she said, upon seeing him.

He raked a hand through it, feeling suddenly foolish. He’d asked the groom to cut it for him and the man had clipped and shorn him with an irritating enthusiasm. The result was close-cut on the sides with some length on the top that fell across his forehead at an angle toward the burned side of his face.

“You look handsome, my lord,” Sansa said without the slightest hint of irony.

Sandor’s stomach swooped and his pulse raced as though he’d narrowly escaped a deadly blow. He took a seat beside her and she leaned toward him and said in an undertone, “I meant it, you know.”

He turned toward her. “Little bird,” he began.

Sansa smiled at him quickly and then bowed her head as her cousin began to say the blessing. Dining at the Vale had become a more social experience once Sansa began dictating castle decorum. She had the tables formed into a large square with breaks in the corners so there was no head table. During each meal she sat in a different place so as to mingle with everyone as well as she might. She encouraged Lord Robert to do the same so he would know the people over whom he would one day preside, although the boy usually sat as close to Sansa as he could. Sandor wanted to sit beside her at every meal as well but knew that would make him even more conspicuous than he felt. As a result, Sandor was forced to make conversation with an ever-rotating cast of castle residents. It was painful at first. He envied Sansa’s easy manner and ability to talk with everyone. It reminded him forcefully of the courteous behavior she’d displayed when he first knew her. The difference now was that she seemed relaxed and happy. Over time, and after a few meals with the same companions, Sandor found it easier. After his promotion to the guard, Sansa had insisted on introducing him to those he didn’t know, which was nearly everyone, noting his bravery and kind treatment of her in King’s Landing. Surely she’d meant it as a way to erase any doubts over his involvement in the Saltpans incident but he always felt exposed when she made such an introduction.

Tonight, though, he was in her company. He held the heavy dishes so that she could serve herself and she asked the serving girl to bring him red wine when white was being poured. He admired her profile as she spoke with someone across the table and she asked him how he liked the venison. She was beautiful and he was in danger. Sandor had admitted to the Elder Brother that he cared for Sansa in a way that went beyond merely protecting her from Joffrey’s cruelty. He supposed he’d known before then but had never wanted to examine the feeling closely. He felt absurdly pleased that she’d called him handsome. He knew she would never jest with anyone’s feelings but he wasn’t certain that she was not just being polite. He’d spent years thinking about her, months getting to her, and now weeks hovering around her. Sandor had intended to offer her his sword but he found himself dissatisfied with the idea.

What, then? Marriage? She’s too high born for a dog like you. The thought that she might reject his offer, not that he planned on making one, sliced through him. He craved a flagon of wine and the oblivion of drunkenness.

Enough. It might as well be tonight. 

Once the meal ended and the interminable singing was over, Sandor quickly laid a claim on Sansa’s attention.

“Would you walk with me?”

Puzzlement flashed through Sansa’s eyes but she assented and, after saying goodnight to various people, she led him out of the main hall. Sansa was in a lively mood, speaking excitedly about the evening’s entertainment, with Sandor saying just enough to keep her talking. Eventually there was no more to say about the quality of the singer’s voice and Sansa asked, “Where are we going, my lord?”

“I thought you liked to walk at night. Seems to me you used to do it all the time in King’s Landing.”

Sansa’s eyes widened but then she smiled and said, teasingly, “It seems to me that you often did the same, my lord.”

“I was bird-watching. Let’s go up on the roof.”

“It’ll be chilly out. Let me get my cloak.”

Sandor immediately reached for the pin securing his own. “Your chambers are on the other side of the castle. You can use mine. It’s . . .bigger,” he finished lamely.

He shook out the cloak behind her and brought the folds forward to cover her arms. He secured the cloth with his pin and stepped back to look at her. The fabric draped her entirely, puddling at her feet so that she appeared to be melting. Sandor wondered if she’d be able to walk.

“Thank you, my lord, but won’t you be cold?” Sansa asked.

“No." Anticipation was heating him. "I’ll carry this,” he added, grabbing a lantern hanging in a nearby alcove. He offered her his arm and they made their way to the roof, his cloak rustling behind them.


	5. The Roof

CHAPTER 5 – THE ROOF

The night sky was lush with stars. A light, crisp breeze blew intermittently, but Sandor knew the last of the winter was behind them. A stone bench of sorts ran along the perimeter of the roof. Sandor led Sansa to a corner and set the lantern on the bench. She spread his cloak behind her, sat gracefully, and pulled up her feet beneath her before wrapping the cloak around her again. Sandor sat opposite, their knees almost touching, and the lantern threw a quavering light on their faces. They looked at each other and an awkward silence stretched between them.

Then they both spoke at once.

“There was such beautiful singing tonight.”

“Thank you for sending the bath.”

“You’re welcome,” Sansa replied as Sandor said, “I’ve heard better.”

“Better? Truly?”

Sandor regretted speaking but plowed forward. “Yes, better. From you. I had a song from you the night of the battle. In your room.”

Now you’ve done it. Act like a dog, get kicked like a dog.

It was a long moment before Sansa responded. “You had a kiss, too, as I recall,” she said shyly, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

Sandor gaped at her, thunderstruck. What?? She thinks I kissed her? He’d been drunk that night but he didn’t think she’d been in her cups as well.

Sansa shifted uncomfortably under his incredulous stare.

She thinks I kissed her. And she’s still here.

Before he knew what was happening, Sandor leaned toward her until their lips were almost touching. He looked into her eyes and saw surprise but not reproach. He closed his eyes and kissed her softly, taking her lower lip between his own two. Sansa pressed forward, cupping his cheek like she’d done that night. After a moment, they broke apart, breathless and grinning. Sandor moved the lantern to the floor, stood, and suddenly scooped Sansa into his arms. She gave a startled laugh as he whirled around, the cloak flying loose about her. He sat lengthwise on the bench, his back against the parapet, and settled Sansa in his lap. With a quick movement, he snapped the cloak so it enfolded them both. She was in his arms, kissing him again, within seconds.

Awhile later, Sandor rested his cheek against her temple. Sansa was still cradled in his lap, her head on his shoulder. She was idly running her fingers over the dog that was stitched on his tunic and it was giving him goosebumps. The lantern had guttered out and clouds covered the moon. The darkness heightened Sandor’s other senses and he was aware of the lavender scent of her hair, the evenness of her breaths, and the feel of her ribs under his fingertips. Suddenly he was also aware of the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Sansa,” he said quietly but urgently while sitting more upright.

She caught his tone and pulled back, alarmed.

“Someone’s coming up the steps. No, there’s no time to go.” He pulled her off his lap and sat her beside him so his body shielded her from view. He spread the cloak over them and sank back into the corner. “Stay still.”

Moments later a sentry stepped out of the stairwell. The man was carrying a torch, which he swung back and forth as he gave a cursory look over the roof. He squinted, blinded by his own light, and then retreated back down the stairs.

Sansa let out a breath. “That wasn’t a very thorough inspection!”

Sandor’s chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Be glad of it, little bird.” He stood up and stretched, his arse numb from hours of sitting on stone. He turned and offered Sansa his hand, helping her up.

She brushed off her skirts. “You called me ‘Sansa.’”

He paused, unsure if she was displeased.

“You don’t let me call you ‘ser’ and I won’t call you ‘Hound’ or ‘dog.’ ‘My lord’ seems . . . formal . . . now . . .” She faltered and took a breath. “May I call you ‘Sandor’?”

Tendrils of heat curled through Sandor’s stomach. He liked the sound of his name on her tongue. “Yes,” he said roughly as he leaned down to kiss her.

He escorted her back to her chambers taking an indirect route to avoid meeting with anyone, even at this late hour.

When they reached her door, Sansa returned his cloak and asked, “What would you have done if we had been seen?”

Sandor spread the cloak over his shoulders. It smelled of night air, lantern smoke, and lavender. “I would have followed your lead.”

Sansa stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. He kissed her back.


	6. Outings

CHAPTER 6 – OUTINGS

The warm spring air was an irresistible invitation to be outdoors, and Sandor and Sansa often stole away under the pretense of exercising their horses. Sansa would have a lunch packed for them and they would spread Sandor’s blanket under a tree, in a field, by a stream, wherever they could find some privacy, and lose track of time talking about everything and nothing.

Sandor had met Sansa’s family but was interested in hearing Sansa’s stories about them, her perspective on them being so different from his own. He acquainted her with his family history, and found it easier than he expected to share the bittersweet memories of his mother and sister. They discussed their mutual acquaintances and experiences, and what they had done during their years of separation. Sandor never tired of her company. She challenged him without judgment, teased him without malice, and put him completely at ease while making him crave more of her time, attention, conversation, pretty smiles, and soft kisses. He was, in short, a happy man.

One day Sansa brought her sewing basket with her to mend one of his shirts. He sat on the blanket next to her and watched in amazement as she produced perfect stitch after perfect stitch. Sansa laughed at his attention and asked if he’d ever sewn anything.

“No, but I did see a man have a gash in his leg sewn shut once.”

“I suppose it’s the same principle,” Sansa said. “Here, try.”

To humor her, Sandor took the shirt into his lap and immediately dropped the needle. He found it quickly but his thick fingers were not made to handle such things and he soon grew frustrated trying to thread it. Sansa took pity on him and, with a move Sandor found he liked very much, put the end of the thread in her mouth to wet it, drew it out through pursed lips, and threaded the needle for him. Sansa tried to explain how to make a running stitch and praised his efforts as Sandor zigzagged the thread through the fabric and cursed when he pricked his fingers. After a few minutes, he handed the shirt back to her and said, “Your turn.”

“My turn? You didn’t bring anything with you.”

He rose and patted the pommel of his sword. “I always have this with me.”

Sansa’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh no. That’s too dangerous.”

“We’ll talk about dangerous when my fingers stop bleeding.” After helping her up, he drew his sword and held the blade so she could take the grip. When he let go, Sansa’s arm immediately dropped, the point of the sword thudding into the dirt.

“It’s heavy!”

Sandor smirked. “Some men’s swords are heavier than others. Longer, too.”

She blushed and looked away, which he noted with some minor agitation.

“Try using two hands,” he said, to gloss over the moment.

Sandor found a stick and showed her the basics of parrying and riposting. Unused to such physical work, Sansa was soon huffing and puffing. Sandor dipped his handkerchief into a nearby stream and offered it to her so she could wipe her brow.

“A favor for a true knight.”

Sansa smiled. “Very funny, ser.”

Sandor laughed and kissed her lightly, not entirely distracted from the mild dissatisfaction he felt.

After the sewing and swordplay lessons, they often spent time engaged in one activity or another. Sandor initially focused on her horsemanship but then realized that required a fair amount of distance between them, and Sansa didn’t truly enjoy riding anyway. She tried to instruct him in drawing but he had no talent and less patience for it. In an inspired moment, he grabbed a small bow and some arrows before their next outing. He was very pleased with the idea of spending the afternoon with his arms around her, his cheek pressed against hers. Yes, teaching her ways to kill you and escape faster on horseback is very wise, he thought dryly, though still excited about his plan.

“I don’t want to kill anything,” she told him. “I couldn’t bear to hurt an animal.”

“You won’t have to,” he answered, touched anew by her gentleness. He pulled a large square of cloth from his pocket, circles marked in red paint in the middle of it. He tied it around the trunk of a tree for her to use as a target.

Standing close behind her, he showed Sansa how to nock the arrow, aim, and release. He took his time explaining each step, drinking in the view of her décolletage from above and watching the tops of her breasts move slightly as she adjusted her aim. He was amused and impressed by the intensity in her eyes as she focused on the target. She improved, though many shots still went wide of the tree. As they were combing the underbrush for wayward arrows, Sansa suddenly said, “Oh!”

Thinking she’d come across a snake or some other unpleasant creature, Sandor hurried to her side. She was crouched beside a clump of white bell-shaped flowers growing on dark green stems that drooped under the weight of the blooms.

“Snowbells!” Sansa said excitedly. “I haven’t seen these since I was at Winterfell. I didn’t know they grew this far south.” She reached out a fingertip and gently tapped one bell, which swung back and forth on its stem, ringing silently. After deeply inhaling the flowers’ scent, Sansa resumed their search for the arrows.

After several more rounds, and a handful of hits, Sansa said, “I never realized archery was so tiring. My arms and, ah, . . . my arms are sore.” She blushed.

“Drawing a bow uses the muscles in your arms, chest, and back,” Sandor said, dropping the arrows he’d gathered to the ground. He stepped behind her again and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. Sansa made a soft sound of pleasure and he worked his fingers along her shoulders, neck, and upper arms. He eyed her chest with apprehension but slowly pressed his fingertips against her collarbone. Sandor pulled his fingers back and then slowly extended them out a little farther, all the while watching for a sign of disapproval from Sansa. She remained quiet and still so he pressed just slightly harder. His hands were so large that, even with the heels of his palms against the slope of her neck, his fingers did not have to be extended all the way to reach dangerous territory. He inched down lower and felt a slight plumpness that indicated the very tops of her breasts. He pulled back slightly and made small circular movements just below her collarbone. Sandor realized his entire body was tense. Should he slide his hands lower until he could cup her breasts fully, as he wanted to, or would that ruin everything? He enjoyed kissing her, and she seemed to enjoy kissing him, but he wanted more. She can’t give you more - she’s married. She’s given you too much already. She’s not some whore . . . Frustrated, he stared off into the trees without seeing them.


	7. The Past

CHAPTER 7 – THE PAST

Sandor knew more than enough about whores. He’d first gone to a brothel when he was 14, propelled there by wine, curiosity, and an ache in his loins. He knew well the way people reacted to his face, and the girls were no different; some were just better at hiding it than others. Embarrassed by the way they stared at him, he’d quickly chosen the youngest-looking girl in the room and began making his way upstairs, leaving her to trail behind. He stopped on the landing, out of view of the rest, and let her lead the way to a room. Her blond head bobbed past him and she gave him a coquettish smile as she opened the door. Once inside, Sandor’s discomfort dried out his mouth and caused his palms to sweat. He wiped them on the sides of his breeches over and over. Jeanette walked past him to the bed with an overdone sway to her hips. She cast a glance back at him and pushed her gown off her shoulder. Sandor noticed she had a fading bruise on the back of her arm and his discomfort increased. Of course she's been with other men. She's a whore. He could not bring himself to move his feet.

She sat on the bed. “First time here?” she asked, conversationally.

“Yes,” Sandor answered flatly. Suddenly he just wanted to get it over with. He advanced toward her. When she didn’t move, he said, “Take off your dress.”

Jeanette’s face remained impassive but she stood and kicked off her worn shoes. She slinked and shimmied out of her dress in a way he later realized was meant to be seductive. When she was fully naked, she gave him a playful smile and asked, “Now what?”

Sandor yanked his shirt over his head, pulled off his boots, and dropped his breeches and smallclothes to the floor. “Lay down,” he told her.

She did so and he took her in greedy adolescent fashion. He was surprised by her cries of pleasure but was more intensely focused on the sensations coursing through his body. It was over in a matter of minutes and, after recovering a few moments longer, Sandor got dressed quickly, paid her, and left.

There were many others after Jeanette. In a life filled with limited choices, the whorehouses at first offered a variety Sandor found thrilling. Once the newness of sex wore off, though, he began to pay attention to his effect on the girls, rather than theirs on him. The vast majority were practiced enough not to let a reaction to his scars show on their faces. He passed over those who betrayed disgust, unless he was feeling particularly vicious and then he took a sick delight in choosing some snotty whore to fuck face to face.

Worse than those, though, were the girls whose artificial enthusiasm, both at being selected by him and then during the act, moved him almost to violence. One girl moaned and convulsed under him with such regularity that he stopped moving and she continued on without him.

Sandor ground his teeth at the disgusting memory. He hated those girls and he hated himself for having to go to them. Over the years he’d made feeble attempts at restraint but he always went back, usually while very drunk. His face made him undesirable enough; eventually his fearsome reputation made his arrival at a brothel even less welcome. Their eagerness to increase their pay with lies about his looks and skill at lovemaking repulsed him. He became a rather selfish lover as a result, taking them from behind to avoid their glances as well as their paltry mummery, and discouraging conversation with terse commands.

There was one, though, who Sandor thought of with less abrasive feelings. Marge: a tall, dark-haired girl with a pointy nose on a plain face. She had large breasts, an acidic tongue, and was not impressed by much of what she saw. Sandor first encountered her when he was 17. He’d shown up drunker than usual and had actually pointed to the girl next to Marge, but not very distinctly. Marge snorted derisively, made a comment to the prettier girl next to her, and took Sandor upstairs. As he stood swaying by the foot of the bed, Marge kicked the chamber pot toward him just in time for him to disgorge the better part of the evening’s wine.

“Feeling better?” she asked sarcastically.

Sandor looked at her bleary-eyed. She opened a window and crisp night air flooded the room.

“It’s cold. Shut the damn window,” Sandor said, sweating despite the temperature.

“I get paid to fuck, not choke on the foul stench of boys who can’t hold their wine.”

Despite himself, Sandor was amused. He hugged the chamber pot. “I can hold my wine just fine.”

Marge raised an eyebrow as he put the chamber pot aside and staggered to the window to suck in long, deep breaths of the frosty air. It helped sober him, although he didn’t particularly feel like sex at the moment. He went to the basin, splashed some water on his face and then rinsed his mouth with water and wine. He stripped out of his sweat-soaked tunic and swabbed his chest, neck, and arms with a damp cloth.

Marge watched the muscles flex under his skin with an expression of interest and appraisal. When he was done, she led him to a straight-backed wooden chair.

“Sit down,” she said quietly.

She undid his laces and took him in her hand, stroking firmly. When Sandor responded, she knelt in front of him and took his manhood in her mouth. He grunted and let his head fall back.

“Get on the bed,” he said, but without much enthusiasm.

“I don’t want your breath in my face, or your stomach heaving above me,” Marge said. She stood and turned her back to him.

Sandor started to protest.

“Hush,” she told him shortly as her dress fell to the floor. She straddled Sandor’s legs and lowered herself on to him, gripping his knees with her hands for balance.

He put his arms around her, letting her ample breasts fall into his cupped palms as her hips rose and fell in his lap. He began to thrust up against her.

“Sit still,” she commanded.

Suddenly he wanted to see her. “Turn around.”

Marge looked over her shoulder with a wicked smile. “No. We’ll do that next time.”

Sandor laughed roughly as Marge made the chair squeak.  
*  
There were many ‘next times,’ as it turned out. Sandor wouldn’t always go to Marge. Having a favorite was a weakness and, worse, a vanity he would not allow. He would not let himself forget that it was his coin she wanted, not his company. The next time he saw Marge, though, he was sober and it was daylight. He sat in the wooden chair and watched as his cock disappeared into her. He saw every bounce of her breasts and leaned forward so her nipples would graze his chest. When Marge gave a soft “ah” after a few minutes, anger surged through him.

“Don’t . . .,” he started to say.

“Shh,” Marge exhaled brokenly, turning her face aside. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and her breathing came in short gasps.

Sandor’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening. He’d never seen a woman reach orgasm before, not a real one anyway, and was aroused and fascinated at the prospect. He clutched her hips, bringing her farther up on his shaft and then down hard so he penetrated her as deeply as possible. Marge shuddered and made a choked noise that sounded as though she was in pain. She cried out, her white throat elongated. She slowed her pace and after a few long passes over his cock, she settled in his lap, out of breath, tiny beads of sweat dotting her nose.

“I should pay you for that,” she joked, somewhat warily.

Never before had Sandor knowingly given pleasure to any woman but he wanted to with a keenness he’d only ever felt for battle. After a minute, Marge began a methodical movement again.

“Let’s get in bed,” Sandor suggested.

Marge immediately rose from his lap with a distracted look not untouched by relief.

She lay down, spread her legs, and waited for him. He sat at the foot of the bed, and reached out a finger to trace the edges of her moist, flushed flesh. She squirmed under his touch and knocked his hand away.

“It’s too soon,” she said. Seeing his confusion, she added, “That way, anyway.”

“Where? Here?” he touched her again and she moved away from his fingertip. He’d never really looked at a woman’s anatomy before.

Marge showed him where she meant and, after deciding his interest was sincere, answered Sandor’s questions about the differing ways women felt sensations, good and bad. He stared at her petal-like layers and leaned in to taste them. Marge responded and, better, made suggestions. Her second climax infused him with a sense of triumph. He was congratulated occasionally on winning tilts in the training yard, but he’d never given pleasure. He found he quite liked it.

For the next two years, Sandor went to Marge as often as his pride would permit. She didn’t laugh at his inexperience or lose patience with his desire to experiment, nor did she flinch from his stare. Her room in the brothel became a sanctuary.

And then, one day, she was gone. Sandor would not ask about her, despite his curiosity. Rumors varied. Some said she’d caught a pox and was driven from the city. Others said she’d gotten herself with child and returned to wherever her family was settled. She’d been abducted, drowned, beaten to death and more, to hear it told. Sandor only knew that he was lonelier for her absence, and even more dissatisfied by the remaining whores.  
*  
Unsatisfying as his nights were, his days were full of training. He’d reached his full height by his sixteenth name day but continued to add bulk to his large frame. Hour upon hour in the yard transformed his upper body into an expanse of muscle. A broad and solid chest was framed by arms sculpted from steel. His back was parted by a valley that extended down to a tapered waist. His abdomen displayed knots of muscle. A defined V-shape ran from his sides down toward his groin. His time on horseback had given him taut buttocks and hard thighs with quadriceps that bulged beneath his breeches. Sandor was tall, strong, fast, intimidating, and lethal – and yet incapable of defeating others’ expectations of him.

Men feared his brother, and Sandor’s scars seemed to cast him as a villain as well. The hypocrisy and mummery of the court sickened him. Wine gave him some escape and he would vent his hostile frustrations with cruel if accurate judgments on those around him. He was no fool, though. Sandor threw himself into his role, excelled, and slowly became the Hound. He was assigned to watch over the Baratheon brat and so it came to be that Sansa Stark, a fragile little bird with no weapon but courtesy, ensnared him.


	8. Back in the Present

CHAPTER 8 – BACK IN THE PRESENT

“Thank you,” Sansa said a bit awkwardly.

Sandor realized he was just standing with his hands on her shoulders, not moving. The corner of his mouth twitched. She’s not some whore and you’re not some lord. He picked up the arrows and moved to pack up the rest of the things they’d brought with them. Sansa started on a few different topics of conversation on the way back to the castle but Sandor withdrew more and more, and eventually she became silent.

For the next week, Sandor fulfilled his duties around the castle but did not linger once his shift was over.

He felt Sansa’s eyes on him but could not bring himself to speak to her. He did not think she’d been toying with him, that was not her way, but apparently he was only to be accepted to a certain point. It rankled. He’d been a fool and it hurt him to admit it.

Sandor spent his spare time in the yard, violently slashing away with his sword until he was drenched in sweat. His muscles ached but no amount of exercise could expel the shame he felt. His nights he spent in his room, nursing a flagon of wine. One night his flagon emptied too fast and, his squire being elsewhere, Sandor was forced to get more wine himself. As he stalked to the kitchens, scowling and feeling especially irritated with his foolishness, he rounded a corner and collided with Sansa. Stunned, he reached for her to prevent her from falling, but she stepped around him, said, “Pardon me, my lord,” and quickly disappeared around the corner. Her face had only been raised to his for an instant but he did not miss her blotchy cheeks and wet eyes.

She is not crying over you, dog, he thought, though a part of him wished that she was.

Sandor got his flagon of wine and left the castle. The night was warm and a full moon provided ample light for walking. Despite the hour, people were still bustling between the various buildings. Sandor wandered aimlessly, his mind whirring without producing distinct thoughts. He thought he saw Rogald coming toward him and, wanting to avoid speaking with anyone, he ducked into the nearest doorway.

It was the sept. Sandor groaned. Of all the places . . . It had the benefit of being empty, though, so he sat on a bench and looked around. The open windows admitted a slight breeze and candles flickered everywhere. He was closest to the warrior’s shrine. Suddenly, Sandor felt very tired. Sansa had given him more than he’d had any right to even dream of. She was a married woman, proper and gently born. Guilt gnawed at him. He’d upset her and abandoned her without explanation. He let that thought sink in for a long time. When he left the sept, he was decided.


	9. Snowbells

CHAPTER 9 - SNOWBELLS

Early the next morning, Sandor found Nestor in the yard. “Boy, do you know what snowbells are?”

“Yes,” Nestor answered, confused.

Sandor pressed a copper into the boy’s palm. “I want you to get as many as you can and give them to Clara.”

Nestor made to interject but Sandor cut him off. “Just give them to Clara. Can you do that?” Nestor nodded and Sandor described the field where Sansa had found them, sending the boy on his way with a directive to keep his task to himself.

Next, Sandor found Clara walking towards the well. He knew Sansa’s maid was uneasy around him but devoted to her mistress.

“Here, girl,” he said gently, taking the bucket from her. He lowered it into the well, speaking as he did so. “In a little while, Nestor is going to bring you flowers for Lady Sansa. Can you put them in her chambers – when she’s not there?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Sandor smiled at the “my lord.” The girl heeded Sansa well. He placed the first bucket of water on the ground and readied the second one.

“Do you have your letters?”

A faint blush crept up Clara’s face. “N-no . . . my lord,” she answered uncertainly.

Good, thought Sandor as he dug into his pocket for a scrap of paper. He did have his letters, if not much occasion to use them. He handed her the note he’d written last night, along with a copper.

As he lowered the second bucket into the well, he said, “When you put the flowers in Lady Sansa’s chambers, leave that note on her dressing table.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Let her find the flowers by herself, alright girl?”

Clara nodded. When Sandor raised the second bucket, she reached for it.

“I’ll carry these. Where are you bound? The kitchens?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Sandor wondered how such a slight girl could manage two heavy buckets of water. He put them where she indicated in the kitchen. She clutched the copper and motioned toward the buckets.

“Thank you, my lord.” She dipped a quick curtsy.

Sandor nodded an acknowledgement to her words and left.


	10. Swearing

CHAPTER 10 - SWEARING

The rest of the morning Sandor spent on edge. He did not see Sansa, Nestor, or Clara. When he entered the hall for dinner, he could feel Sansa looking at him. He met her eyes and she gave him a discreet nod. Sandor seated himself next to Rogald and, for once, was glad of the old man’s chatter.

As soon as the meal and entertainment were over, Sandor dashed to the roof. There was still an hour or so of daylight to be had. He paced. It dawned on him that he was nervous and, disgusted, he swore.

Sansa arrived, looking uncertain, which pained him. He immediately stepped toward her, taking the unlit lantern from her hand, and leading her to the stone bench. He spread his cape on the stone and motioned for her to be seated.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

Sandor made an indifferent gesture in response. He knew what he wanted to do and he wanted it done. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and dropped to one knee. Holding the sword point-down, he tilted the hilt toward Sansa, and lowered his head. “Lady Sansa, let me swear my sword to you. I . . .” He did not want to bring up the Lannisters or his desertion, nor did he want to beg her for a job when she had no means of independent support herself. Regret and irritation with his rashness were closing his throat but he barreled on. “The Imp, your husband . . . I cannot serve him again . . .” Sandor stopped before he made it worse. He looked up, bristling with anger at his own stupidity. How many times are you going to give her cause to reject your protection, especially when you have nothing else to offer? He’d decided he wanted to stay with her and this was the only way, and yet here he was, reminding her of her husband. Damned lackwit, he thought, scowling.

She pulled in a corner of her mouth and looked away. “I was forced to marry Lord Tyrion but I . . . we . . .” She blushed. “I was not his wife in truth . . .” She wrung her hands and turned a deeper shade of pink. “A rumor reached us over the winter that Lord Tyrion died across the Narrow Sea. I do not know if that’s true but. . .”

Sandor scarcely heard. For years he’d harbored a bitter dislike of the Imp, resenting his power and influence, but most of all hating his ill-deserved confidence. The ugly little man swaggered about as though he were 10 feet tall and the embodiment of every maid’s most fevered dream. Sandor was tortured over the years by the assumption that Sansa was wife to such a man, wasting her beauty and kindness on the stunted, twisted Tyrion. The shock of it hit him with the force of lance on shield. He realized she was still speaking.

“. . . a Stark in Winterfell so, yes, what I mean to say is, I would be honored to have your serv…”

“Seven bloody hells, girl!” Sandor yelled. “Why didn’t you say something? All this time . . .” He turned on his heel and stalked a few feet away, swearing fluently.

Sansa’s eyes flew open in shock. He rounded on her. “What about Littlefinger?”

Sansa shook her head in confusion. “What about . . . ? No. Lord Petyr may have wanted . . . He discovered his sickness just as winter began . . .”

“You mean to tell me that after all these years, you’re still a maid?” Sandor shouted. Her shy behavior suddenly made sense. She’d kissed him, believing herself to be free. She’d flushed over his crude comments because she still had her maidenhead. Sandor’s heart swelled such that it threatened to lift him up and carry him over the castle walls.

Tears flooded Sansa’s eyes and mortification overtook her features. Sandor closed the space between them in an instant and took her into his arms. Her next words were muffled against his chest. “They only wanted me for my claim,” she said miserably.  
Sandor didn’t know what to say so he just held her until she regained her composure.

Several minutes later, after Sansa was done dabbing at her eyes, he said, “Your cousin may resent . . .”

She sighed. “I spent most of the winter telling Lord Robert that I would return to Winterfell. His advisors will assist him until he comes of age. I know I’m his closest family but . . .” Her lack of enthusiasm at spending another two-and-a-half years in the Vale was apparent on her face.

“Piss on that. He’s worthless with a sword but most lordlings are. So long as he can give orders and keep his men paid, he’ll be fine.”

Sansa nodded. “I’ll tell him tomorrow that I’ve accepted your service and will begin making plans to return to Winterfell.” She crossed her arms, looking resolved if still a little apprehensive.

Sandor put his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to thank her, make promises to her and reassure her, to warn her that her path wouldn’t be easy, but enough had been said for one night. He slid his hands down to her upper arms and rubbed them briskly for a moment. “You’re a brave girl.”

Sansa made a noncommittal noise. The almost-unladylike sound coupled with the adrenaline that was racing through his system made him giddy. He laughed heartily. “Girl, you survived living with the Lannisters, Littlefinger, and me. Going home should be easy.”

Sansa laughed. He offered her his arm and walked her back to her chambers. At her door, he bent toward her hesitantly. She turned her face up and he kissed her gently before returning to his own room, grinning like a fool the whole way.


	11. Lords Robert & Petyr

CHAPTER 11 – LORDS ROBERT & PETYR

Word spread quickly that Sandor was now Lady Sansa’s sworn shield but news of her impending departure threw the castle into a tizzy. The day after she’d announced her intention of leaving for Winterfell in a month’s time, Sandor was summoned for an audience with Lord Robert. To his surprise, the boy received him alone. Still small for his age, Robert looked like a doll perched on his chair. His nervousness was palpable but after he gathered himself, he looked at Sandor directly when he spoke.

“I want you to tell Lady Sansa that she should stay in the Vale.”

Sandor snorted. “It’s not for me to tell her anything, little lord.”

Robert creased his brow in frustration. “It’s not safe in the north. Everyone knows that.”

“I’ll be with her.”

Robert was clearly not reassured by that but was not brave enough to say so.

“I’m her family. Her place is here.”

“You are an Arryn. Lady Sansa is a Stark. Her place is in Winterfell.”

“Winterfell is in ruins. Everyone says so. Why would she want to go there?”

Sandor stifled a groan. “To rebuild it. Surely she told you.”

Robert grudgingly acknowledged that she had.

“If your family’s home had been destroyed, wouldn’t you want to rebuild it?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“And hasn’t Lady Sansa been away from home for a very long time?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“You’ve enjoyed having her here to keep you company.” It was not a question.

Robert flushed. “Everyone has so why . . .?”

“She’s enjoyed your company, too. She told me she’ll miss you.” She hadn’t but Sandor wanted to leave.

“She did?” He looked mildly appeased.

“She did. Lady Sansa told me she wouldn’t consider leaving if the Vale was not in such good hands,” Sandor said flatly.

Robert shifted in his seat, a pout forming on his lips.

Sandor was tiring of the conversation. “You’d not see your cousin upset, would you?”

“No . . .”

“Make the next few weeks happy for her and maybe she’ll want to visit. Make her miserable and she’ll have no reason to ever come back."

Robert nodded, thinking, and Sandor sketched half a bow and left before the boy could speak again.  
*  
To Sandor’s absolute shock, Lord Robert announced that there would be a ball two days before Sansa’s departure. Sandor thought it was a waste of time and resources, but Sansa was thrilled by the prospect.

“Dancing! Oh, the winter was so long and there will be nothing at Winterfell but it will be so nice to have some music and dancing before we leave!”

Sandor could not let her think their impending journey would be easy. "Little bird, it's a long way to Winterfell, and winter may still linger there. You've got the northern lords to treat with, no castle to live in once you arrive, only the food we'll manage to carry or buy along the way, and no money. A ball . . ."

"No money?"

Sandor was not privy to any arrangements Lord Robert had made for his cousin but he doubted very much Sansa had the revenue to hire the sellswords she would need to protect her home as she rebuilt. He pressed his lips into a flat line.

"I have Lord Petyr's gold."

"Lord Petyr's gold?"

"Yes, although I suppose it's truly mine now. As his sickness became more . . . grim, Lord Petyr asked if I would care for him. He begged me not to refuse and I could not, seeing him suffer as he did. We were meeting a maester that day at the inn when you found me, although no one was supposed to know. Lord Petyr did not want anyone to know he was ill. Anyway, he had no other, well, he had no children of his own, no wife, of course, and no one he cared to leave his wealth. So he left it to me. He told me all he'd ever wanted was my mother and it gave him pleasure to see her in me. It was . . . very sad."

"So you're going to use Littlefinger's gold to rebuild Ned Stark's castle." Sandor's raucous laughter echoed off the walls.

Sansa gave him a reproving look. "I can think of no better use for it. I plan to rebuild the glass gardens first, in case this is a false spring. I would not risk men's lives if I did not intend to do my best to care for them. I don't expect it will be easy for anyone." 

"No, little bird, it won't be easy." After that he kept quiet about the ball.


	12. The Hunting Party

CHAPTER 12 – THE HUNTING PARTY

Since becoming her sworn shield, Sandor took the liberty of being in Sansa's presence as much as he could. Preparations for their departure were endless and though she handled the details with her usual grace, he noticed Sansa's nerves were fraying.

One day, in the hall, after hours of discussion centering on who, exactly, would do what once they reached Winterfell, Sansa's exhaustion was plain. Sandor had stood to the side, watching as various parties made suggestions and jockeyed for favor. Sansa treated them all with her customary courtesy but Sandor's jaw was tightening with each repeated request. For awhile he distracted himself with more pleasant thoughts. 

Several days before, they'd met with the men who wanted to travel as part of Sansa's train and serve as sellswords, albeit glorified ones. As such, they'd report to Sandor, who was the de facto captain of the guard. Sansa had suggested having the men come to the castle but Sandor was itching to be away from the throng of petitioners who were always at Sansa's heels. It seemed as though everyone needed to consult with her about something and their time alone had evaporated. He pointed out that going to the men's homes would give Sansa a chance to meet their families and see how they tended their property. "A man who doesn't take care of his weapons can't be trusted in battle," he'd said.

So together they'd met with each man and spent a few minutes discussing his skills, weaponry, and reasons for going north. Sandor and the man would engage in some light sparring so Sandor could determine whether the man was actually useful with his weapons or a shameless braggart hoping to impress Sansa.

Sandor's squire had his letters and made notes on each.

"Mark that one," Sandor would rasp now and again, and his squire would add a small X next to the man's name. An X meant the man had displeased Sandor in some way, sometimes through sloppy sword-work or lack of promised skill, but more often by attempting to draw an unnecessary amount of Sansa's attention toward himself. Those men were destined for the baggage train. The rest met his expectations - they were next to useless, but they'd have to do. In all, there were maybe twenty men who would be admitted into Sansa's train and armed as her defenders. The last few they'd visited were too old, too young, too feeble or just plain too stupid and Sandor hustled them through the paces with a speed that was verging on hostile.

When Sandor and Sansa returned to the castle, Sandor began to lead them towards the servants' quarters.

"Shouldn't we be going to meet Charles?" Sansa asked. "He wanted to know how many men you found acceptable." Charles, Lord Robert's master-at-arms, had asked for a list of the men who would be leaving the Vale with them. Sansa had offered to reimburse her cousin for depleting his supply of fighting men.

"I told him we'd meet him at four."

"Four? That's over an hour from now. If we have so much time, why did you hurry those last few men so?"

Sandor looked over his shoulder at her and raised a brow. "We have better ways of spending our time than watching old men pretend to be knights."

He turned down a narrow corridor and stopped at the second door on the right. He shoved the door open and gestured for Sansa to enter ahead of him.

"This is your room," she said, looking around.

"Aye." He closed and bolted the door. "It's also the last place anyone would look for you."

She took in the simple furnishings, rough bed linens, and lack of personal belongings, and frowned. "I did not know your quarters were so small. I'll speak to Lor..."

Sandor snorted. "And how would you know what my room looks like, little bird?"

Sansa cast a dissatisfied look around the small space but seemed to accept that he had the right of it.

Sandor took off his sword belt and slung it over the post of his bed. He'd never felt so huge, alone in his tiny room with his little bird. He could only stand upright on one side of the room, so sloped was the ceiling. His bed was against the wall, tucked under an eave. A chest for his clothes sat at its foot and a small nightstand, which held a flagon and two candlesticks, was to its side. Behind the door was another small table that held a comb, razor, and other odds and ends. The lone ornamentation was a shabby painting of a hunting dog. Two empty hooks gave tell to Sandor's opinion of the former occupant's other decorations.

The most beautiful thing in his room was Sansa. Her fair skin seemed to have the palest pink roses blooming just beneath the surface. Her eyes, which were still appraising furniture he didn't care a whit about, were brightened by their time outdoors. The afternoon sun coming through the small, solitary window behind her picked out red-gold highlights in her hair, which was braided but for a few soft curls framing her face. The ivory skin of her neck and chest was offset by the deep blue color of her gown. Sansa turned and the silhouette of her bodice, containing the fullness of her breasts while seeming on the verge of allowing them to burst forth, wet Sandor's mouth. 

The weeks of discretion suddenly felt much longer. She looked at him and her mouth fell slightly open at the hungry look in his eyes. They came together in an instant. He kissed her with urgency while steering her toward his bed. The cursed ceiling forced Sandor to break away from her and duck down to sit on the straw mattress. The temporary reprieve gave Sansa just enough time to blush shyly and hesitate. Sandor extended a hand to her and drew her down next to him, kissing her with just enough force to push her farther and farther back until she was leaning against his pillow. Her breath was warm against his skin and it calmed him. He kissed her slowly and deeply, absorbing the feel of her lips on his. He moved to the side of the mattress near the wall so she could bring her feet up on to the bed. He looked at her through a haze of longing, bringing a hand to one of her ripe breasts. If he bit into it, he was sure she'd gush sweet juice like a midsummer peach. She drew in a breath as Sandor brushed his fingertips along the top of her breast before curving his fingers to the side and dipping beneath the edge of her gown to take its entirety into his palm. Her skin was warm, almost moist, and his large hand tested the constricting fabric of her gown. He could barely squeeze her without his knuckles threatening to tear the fine material. Instead, Sansa's small movements caused her flesh to press against and recede from his hand. Without moving, his skin was too calloused to discern where her nipple was until it gently asserted itself against his palm and made his breeches as tight as her bodice.

Sansa brushed his hair back off his forehead and brought her fingertips behind his ear and down along his jaw. As they kissed, her hand slid inside the collar of his tunic and squeezed his neck. She lightly scratched his skin and he rolled his neck to guide her fingernails to areas prickling for her touch. 

"Harder," he rasped before covering her mouth with his own again. She dug her nails a little deeper into the nape of his neck and raked them over his skin and scalp. He felt drugged by the pleasure of it and lay next to her in languid contentment.

They gazed into each others' eyes, sipped at each others' lips, and explored what little skin they could reach beneath the edges of their clothes. There was no need for words. Small sounds of pleasure and a kiss or a smile conveyed all that might be said.

That hour slipped by too quickly. There, in the tight space of his room, hemmed in by his small bed and her snug gown, laying nose to nose, he and Sansa made a long journey of intimacy, covering the distance by the breadth of their fingertips, the span of their mouths, and the depth of their eyes.

*

"Yes, yes, but if I were to be in charge of the . . ."

Sandor stifled a groan at being recalled to his present surroundings. He found himself stepping to the center of the room.

"Lady Sansa, your presence is requested," he hesitated for half a second, "by Lord Robert." He looked as stern as possible, daring anyone to point out that no page had arrived with a message.  
Sansa looked up, concerned. He waited until she came around the table and then quickly escorted her from the hall and out the door into the courtyard.

"Where is Sweetrobin? Is he unwell? What does he need?"

"He needs nothing. You need some air."

"Air?" She struggled to keep up with his long strides as he made for the stables.

"Yes, air. Let them actually make the trip to Winterfell before they're promised any more. They've had enough of your time for now."

Sansa began to protest and Sandor had to admit, to himself if not to her, that he was being rather high-handed.

"Come with me for an hour or two," he said softly. "Please," he added when she still looked incensed.

Half an hour later, Sandor determined they were far enough from the castle. It was a warm day so they tethered their horses near a stream and walked along its sun-dappled banks.

Sansa took a deep breath. "There's a lot to be done before we leave," she remarked. 

"Aye, but the Lady of Winterfell doesn't have to do everything."

Sansa looked at the ground. "They're depending on me." 

"They should depend on themselves. They know the risk they're taking."

Sansa was silent for a moment. "When you led men into battle, what did you say to them?"

"Say to them? I told them where we were to be positioned and not to kill valuable hostages . . ."

"No, what did you say to reassure them?"

Sandor gave a barking laugh. "Living through it was all the reassurance they needed, little bird. They weren't fighting for me. They were fighting for the king's coin, for a chance at knighthood, for honor, promotion. For themselves."

Sansa thought that over. "I can't give them any of that. Men might have followed Robb for those reasons . . ."

"Aye, they might have. They followed your brother into war. They want to follow you into peace."

"I want peace, truly." She looked at him wide-eyed. “It’s just . . . I don't know what we're going to find at Winterfell, or what we're going to encounter on the way. Some men are even bringing their families! I've told them there likely won't be shelter for awhile but I don't want to discourage them because I need their help."

"They know you’re not promising them a song, little bird. They won’t find a better deal, or a prettier lady, anywhere.”

Sansa gave him a small smile and he took her hand. To his surprise, Sansa took his other hand as well and stood in front of him. She began pacing out steps to a dance, pulling him this way and that. “We should practice for the ball,” she explained.

“I do all my practicing in the yard.”

“Sandor, you’re not going to dance with me?”

He didn’t want to hurt her by refusing so he said, “I’ll help you practice,” and let her lead him through the steps.

As they danced on the stream bank, Sansa hummed to keep time. It was a pretty melody and it took Sandor’s mind off his lurching attempts to keep up with her graceful movements. She smiled and encouraged him as she moved them through a faster set. She laughed and whirled through the steps, her long hair fanning out behind her, her cheeks pink, eyes bright. Sandor was struck again by her beauty and the thrill of being with her, and all alone. He drank in the sight of her slender figure, the swell of her breasts beneath the neckline of her dress, the curve of her waist, the elegant way she moved. He felt a stirring in his loins and a quickening of his pulse. As Sansa caught her breath, Sandor unfastened his cloak and spread it on the moss under the closest tree. He sat and then reached for Sansa’s hand, guiding her down next to him. At the last second, he tugged her so she fell into his arms.

She began to apologize for falling on him but he said in a husky voice, “It wasn’t an accident.” He laughed at the scandalized look in her eyes and then he was plunging his hands into her hair and kissing her. Having the length of her body on top of his hardened him instantly. Sandor dragged his hands down her back and over her hips, pressing her against him as he moved. He wanted her to know his desire for her, to have her feel her effect on his body. Sansa’s hair fell like a curtain over him, giving a feeling of isolation and privacy. She kissed him and he could hold back no longer. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and felt her suck on it so gently he groaned and rolled them over so he was on top. Sandor kept one hand under her hip and the other caught in her hair. He pulled her head back slightly so her throat was exposed and he kissed the length of it down to the rise of her breasts. Disentangling both hands, he pushed her breasts up and together, burying his face in the soft curves, kissing and licking between them, reddening her skin with the stubble on his cheek and chin. His cock was straining painfully against his breeches. Sansa’s hips pressed up against him, almost causing him to spill his seed then and there. He was panting, squeezing her breasts rhythmically, feeling her nipples harden under his thumbs. He longed to tear her dress away and plunge himself deep inside her, to crash against her until they were one, to have her and nothing else, ever.

“Sansa,” he said breathlessly.

Just then, Stranger gave a high whine and stamped a hoof against the ground. “Fuck!” Sandor growled, instantly springing to his feet, and yanking his sword from its scabbard with a hiss. Overheated as he was, he saw nothing, though his eyes darted everywhere. Sansa sat up, fear rolling off her in waves, her fist pressing against her chest. Just as guilt for his lack of vigilance was finding its way to Sandor’s consciousness, he spotted movement on the edge of a distant stand of trees.

It was a hunting party, returning to the castle at a leisurely pace. Sandor swore and hunched down to avoid detection. “Don’t move,” he said to Sansa. “It’s just a hunt. They’ll be gone in a few minutes.” She nodded and let out a breath. Sandor returned to her side, glaring violently at the merry party tramping through the underbrush across the clearing, the ache in his loins darkening his mood.

Several minutes after the last sounds from the hunting party were heard, Sandor looked at Sansa and she met his eyes with a fierce blush. “We should head back.”

Sandor didn't respond beyond standing and brushing off his breeches.

Before he helped her mount her horse, Sandor pulled Sansa against him and kissed her deeply. She responded and his ache deepened. She seemed as unsettled as he felt but he did not want to know if it was from desire or relief.


	13. The Ball

CHAPTER 13 – THE BALL

The day of the ball arrived, heralded by steady rain and cooler temperatures. There were not many people in attendance beyond the usual castle inhabitants but the hall had been decorated with lanterns and flowers, and a quartet of musicians tuned their instruments in the corner. Sandor stood at the rear of the dais, behind Sansa, who glowed in a gown of deep green, a few snowbells woven into her cascade of auburn curls. She was in high spirits, smiling at everyone and eager for the dance to begin.

Across the room, Lord Robert caught Sandor's eye. He looked questioning but rather satisfied with the ball's reception. Sandor returned the look for a second and then gave a slight tip of his head. The boy turned to hide a wide smile and then walked to his place in the middle of the dais. At his appearance, the crowd hushed. Robert stammered out a general welcome and thanked Sansa for her kind treatment of him, praising her as both a second mother and sister. He spoke of his pleasure at the renewed alliance between the Eyrie and Winterfell, his voice cracking and his cheeks blazing scarlet. He hastily raised a glass and wished his cousin a safe journey, and a swift return to her friends in the Vale. 

Sansa's pleasure was evident. She rose to kiss her cousin on the cheek and addressed the crowd with a warmth matched only by her sincerity. She thanked absolutely everyone, from Robert down to the scullery maids. Sandor watched the assembly and saw how, with a few heartfelt sentences, Sansa charmed them all, even while touching on the journey a number of them would be making in two days. A general cheer of "To Winterfell!" was given and Sandor heard, even over the crowd, the intake of Sansa's breath. He felt a strange pride then, watching Sansa accept the well wishes and kind words from Robert's court. He alone knew how much she needed to hear them.

The meal was served, accompanied by boisterous conversation and flowing wine. After the last course was cleared, Lord Robert motioned to the musicians and offered Sansa his arm, leading her to the center of the floor. Sansa's fluid grace drew every eye and her enthusiasm spread through the room. Her curtsy to Robert at the close of the set marked the opening of the general dance and the floor was soon crowded. Sandor moved from the dais to the side of the room, the better to keep Sansa within view. He sipped wine as he watched one man after another claim her hand. She was as tireless as the musicians, who kept the crowd moving from one dance to the next. A line dance formed and Sandor watched with displeasure as a puffed up young lordling pulled Sansa close with a grating air of entitlement. The couples spun around the next pair in the line and so worked their way down the set. Sandor handed his cup to a maid and moved toward the end of the line. As the young man turned, Sandor rasped harshly, "My lord." Sansa's partner was so startled it was an easy thing for Sandor to step past him and take his place in the line. Sansa's surprise was complete but she accepted his hands with pleasure and moved them back to the head of the line. The young man called out a weak, "Hey!" but did not issue a challenge and so was left among the crowd against the wall. 

Sandor knew many eyes were on him, and not just because he was dancing with Sansa. His discomfort was bubbling into anger when the musicians began to play a new song. The line dissolved into pairs. Across the floor, another man approached them, keeping his eyes on Sansa, but Sandor turned his back to the intruder, effectively discouraging his interruption. Sandor found there was an unexpected privacy in a crowded dance. Now that the style of dance had changed, he felt almost hidden amongst the other couples. He looked down at Sansa, who gave him a radiant smile and squeezed his hands.

"I didn't think you'd dance, my lord," she said.

"Well . . . I didn't, either. Not that I'd call this dancing." He was trying to follow Sansa's lead but was really shuffling from spot to spot.

"You're doing well."

He bent to kiss her hair and, remembering himself in time, turned the movement into an awkward and unnecessary bow. While his ear was closer to her mouth, Sansa said in an undertone, "I've asked Clara to see there's a fire in my room by midnight."

Sandor's brows began to draw together in confusion but she continued, "I told her I intend to sleep late tomorrow and that she won't need to attend me until noon."

The corner of his mouth twitched. He fought to keep an indecent grin from spreading across his face. He quickly pressed her against him in response and shuffled again as Sansa stepped to the side. 

"You're brave to forego Clara's protection for the night."

"I'd consider a substitute."

Sandor gave a barking laugh, startling the couples around them.

Sansa joined in and Sandor felt a rush of pleasure at making her laugh. His pleasure increased when she began to sing, very quietly, along with the music. He tilted his head down to hear her better and she smiled up at him.

“I’ve always liked this song,” she confided.

“It’s no Florian and Jonquil.”

Sansa laughed. “I did promise you that one, didn’t I?”

“You did, but I like the one you’re singing now better.”

Sansa smiled and resumed her song, taking care to direct her voice to his one good ear. Sandor’s eyes darted around the crowd. Plenty of people along the perimeter of the room were watching them but no one close enough to overhear Sansa’s singing seemed to be paying attention. He relaxed a little. The prettiness of her voice, and the thrill of her singing to him, distracted him from his own stiff movements and he enjoyed the rest of the dance.

When the set ended, Sandor relinquished Sansa's hand to Lord Robert and moved back to the wall, grabbing a cup of wine from a passing tray. The room had suddenly grown quite warm.

He spent the rest of the night with one eye on Sansa while talking with various people about the upcoming journey. Jamison, Lord Robert's chief gardener, approached and began a discussion on northern plants and growing practices. Despite being told that it had been years since Sandor had been north of the Neck, and then only briefly, the man rattled on. As Sandor downed the last of his wine in hopes of relief, an idea struck him. He questioned Jamison, who was thrilled by Sandor's sudden interest in his work, and, when they parted, Sandor was well satisfied by what he had learned.


	14. The Wait

CHAPTER 14 – THE WAIT

Just before midnight, the musicians played the last song and then the room fizzed with conversation for awhile longer. Sansa was surrounded by people eager to speak with her once more before her departure.

Lord Robert saw Sandor standing to the side and approached him. “I will escort my cousin to her chambers tonight.”

Sandor acknowledged his dismissal with a bow. He turned on his heel and left the hall at once, taking the exit into the corridor that would lead to his own room.

He doubled back and passed through the kitchens, thinking to ask for Clara if anyone questioned his presence. He strode quickly down the corridor to Sansa's room and, after making sure he wasn’t seen, slipped through her door.

Once inside, Sandor looked around, wondering what to do with himself until she arrived. He saw, to his left, a cozy sitting area with embroidered pillows on the chairs. Sansa’s sewing basket sat next to the table. Across from him was a set of doors leading to a small balcony. He could see the rain had stopped and the moon was giving a bluish light to the balcony’s furnishings. To Sandor’s right was an alcove that could be separated from the rest of the room by curtains, which were just then drawn back. In the alcove was Sansa’s bed, which, flanked by two nightstands, looked out into the rest of the room. The bed had a richly carved headboard of dark wood and was situated under two windows, through which the moonlight came streaming. The fireplace was to its left and a wooden screen to its right shielded the dressing area and privy. Clara had built a good fire. The room was pleasantly warm.

Sandor made use of the privy and then, lacking anything else to do, looked at the objects on Sansa’s dressing table. After frowning over some powders he couldn’t assign a purpose, he saw a bottle of green liquid and, sniffing it, discovered it contained alcohol infused with mint leaves. Fucking Littlefinger, he thought. He took a swig anyway, rinsed the concoction around in his mouth, and spat it out in the privy. Now that his mouth was tingling, he thought to finish the job and, using Sansa’s wash basin, washed his face and hands.

Sansa’s brush and hand mirror were neatly arranged on the dressing table and Sandor contemplated them for a minute. He rarely had access to a mirror and even less frequently had a desire to use one. He picked it up and looked at himself. Still burned. Doubt chilled him. She wasn’t too happy last time she found you in her room . . . No, but this time she knows you’ll be here . . . She didn’t invite you . . . She didn’t tell you she sent Clara away for the night for no reason . . . Sandor put the mirror down and his eye fell on a small enameled bowl, which contained pieces of ribbon, bits of jewelry, and some dry wafers he couldn’t identify. Holding up one wafer to the firelight, he discovered that it was a pressed flower, a snowbell. A fluttering feeling went through him. Little bird . . .

He returned the snowbell to the bowl and turned back toward the fire. Doubt remained but Sandor removed his cloak and sword belt and draped them over a small chair next to the fireplace. Then he sat and removed his boots, knowing his being discovered in such a state would be disastrous for himself and worse for Sansa. He decided to draw the curtains on the alcove so the sleeping area would be concealed from anyone entering the room. Sandor then crossed to the bed and sat gently on the edge of the feather mattress. He heaved a sigh, swung his legs up, stretched out, and waited.

After what felt like a long time, Sandor heard voices in the hall and his body grew tense in anticipation.

“Thank you again, Sweetrobin, for the ball. It was lovely and everyone enjoyed it.”

A few more words were exchanged and then the door opened and closed. Sandor’s heart started thumping in his chest as Sansa’s footsteps drew near. She pulled back the curtain.


	15. Sansa

CHAPTER 15 - SANSA  
“You decided to protect me in Clara’s absence after all,” Sansa said, smiling.

“I’ll always protect you,” Sandor answered, rising from the bed.

Sansa walked into his embrace. “I know,” she said quietly.

He hugged her and kissed the top of her head.

She pulled away and looked up, though she could not meet his eyes. “I-I’m glad you came. I’ll . . . get changed.”

Sandor nodded and watched as she started walking to her dressing area. “Oh,” she said suddenly, looking back at him, abashed. “Clara’s not here. I . . . need help with my dress.”

“Come near the fire.” Sandor’s experience with such things was limited but he was not about to call in a maid.

He sat in the chair and pulled Sansa onto his lap. After some finagling, he got the laces at the back of her dress loosened. “Is that enough?”

Sansa wriggled a bit. “Yes, I think so. Thank you.” She walked around the bed and retreated behind the screen.

Sandor stretched out on the bed again. He could hear the rustling of fabric and, from the sound, tried to picture what Sansa was doing. The thought of her undressing mere feet away, for him, set his pulse to racing. He listened to the splashing of water and numerous other small noises as she got ready. Helping himself to a flagon of wine resting on the nightstand, he poured two cups and took a drink and a deep breath.

Sansa emerged, her hair loose and her gown just shy of being sheer in the moonlight. She glanced at him as she walked around the bed and perched on the side closer to the fire, drawing her arms around her knees. Her nervousness was palpable.

“Would you like some wine . . . to relax?” He gestured towards her with his cup.

Sansa gave him a strange look. “No, thank you. I . . . don’t need it.”

Sandor returned his cup to the nightstand and lay on his side, propping himself up on his left elbow and looking past her towards the fire. He wasn’t sure what to do. She surprised him by speaking again. Her voice was tight and low.

“Sandor, I’m scared.”

He took her right hand in his. “Did you enjoy the ball?”

She looked at him puzzled. “Yes, I did but . . .”

“You’ve always liked dancing.”

A happy look crossed her face. “I enjoyed one dance more than the rest tonight.”

“I know. That’s why I had to cut in.”

Sansa laughed. Sandor brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. She looked down at him and smiled. He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist, very slowly making his way up her arm until she had to turn towards him. He put his arm around her and drew her down next to him, kissing her lightly. She kissed him back, snuggling closer, and Sandor’s heart leapt.

He deepened the kiss, brushing a thumb across her cheekbone before burying his fingers in her hair. He touched the tip of his tongue to her lips. She didn’t immediately respond, and he was about to pull back when her lips parted. Sandor slid his tongue into her mouth and rolled it around hers. He held her and thought, slow, slow . . .

The tightening in his loins was not slow, though. Nor was his breathing, which was growing uneven. Sandor kissed her temple and the length of her jaw, the side of her neck, her collarbone. He hesitated when reaching the low-cut neck of her linen shift. He'd buried his face in her breasts that day in the woods, but tonight felt different. Sansa seemed to sense it, too.

She tentatively stroked his hair. He made an approving sound and she responded with a firmer touch. Encouraged, Sandor nudged the gown aside to bare one smooth shoulder, the light of the fire making it pink and white and gold by turns. His left arm cradled her head, his fingertips entwined in her hair, brushing against her back. His right hand wandered over her body, sliding along her side, pressing against her hip, reaching down the length of her leg to the hem of her gown. He was aware of it all but comprehended none of it. She was all soft skin, scented hair, delicate, supple.

Despite the weeks, he was still overwhelmed by her presence. He’d dreamed but not believed, thought but not hoped. He rested his forehead beneath the base of her throat and tried to calm the surging of his desire. Sansa’s hands slid through his hair to the back of his neck and out across his broad shoulders. A low groan escaped his throat unbidden. He kissed the creamy flesh above her breasts. His hand caressed her ankle and slowly traveled up her leg, bringing her gown up with it. Sandor moved a little lower, his lips drawing nearer to her breasts. He ran his palm over her lean thigh as his chin pushed the linen almost low enough to expose her.

“Sandor,” she breathed. “Please . . . the fire . . . the light . . .”

He raised his head to look at her, stricken. No . . .

“You . . . can see me . . .,” Sansa said in a voice fraught with anxiety.

For an instant, Sandor was lost. Then her meaning came to him and the sweetness of her innocence sent a thrill through his body. “Little bird, I’ll give you whatever you ask for. If it’s darkness you want . . .” Chuckling, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her over his body to the other side of the bed. He could sense her smile, and her relief. With his back to the fire, she was much more concealed.

Sandor pulled the hem of Sansa’s shift up higher than before and ran his fingertips along her inner thigh before easing her gown off her shoulders. She was so small under his large hands. Her breath was uneven, her own hands flitting over him, unsure of where to land. He swept the tip of his nose along the side of her face and lightly bit her earlobe. She turned towards him with a soft, “Ohh.” With his heart thudding in his chest, Sandor traced the edge of her ear with the tip of his tongue, gently sucking her earlobe and then her neck. His hand moved down her chest, pushing the shift aside until he was cupping one of her breasts, squeezing it softly, rubbing his thumb over her nipple, making it firm. Sansa pressed up against him.

“Gods, you feel good,” he said roughly. That she was with him was an endless source of exhilaration. He wanted to ravish her and savor her at once. He’d been a man without gods for so long but now he had something to worship. He wanted to please his little bird, this woman she’d become. Almost overcome with desire, gratitude, love, reverence . . . slow, slow, he thought again.

“You feel good, too,” she answered shyly, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him close. Minutes passed. Kissing her was deliverance. Her acceptance of him was as fresh and sweet as her lips.

Sandor drew back, his knees on either side of her legs. He pushed his hair away from his face and gazed down at her. Her breasts were as perfect as he’d known they would be, full, each tipped in soft pink. She turned aside slightly under his gaze. “You are so beautiful,” Sandor said in a raspy whisper.

Tearing his eyes away from her, he removed his tunic and let it fall to the floor. Sansa shyly raised a hand to his chest and dragged her fingertips slowly downward over his muscled stomach. She curled her fingers over the waist of his breeches, her knuckles pressing into his lower abdomen. Sandor shook, craving more of her touch. Sansa withdrew her hand, unsure. He took both of her hands in one of his, brought them over her head, and held them there. Her breasts quivered slightly as she wriggled in his grip. He grinned at her and lowered his head. He suckled one taut nipple and then the other, flicking his tongue over them, pulling at them, squeezing her breasts with his one hand while her wrists were locked in his other.

“Sandor!” she cried, half-laughing.

“Hmm?” He flickered his tongue over her nipple slowly, feeling its texture. She writhed beneath him.

“You were saying?” he teased, giddy that she was half-naked in his arms.

She giggled nervously.

“Out with it, girl!”

“I was going to say it tickled.”

“And now?” He gave her nipple a gentle suck.

“Mmmmmm . . .”

Sandor gave a bark of laughter and released her wrists. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply. She was better than wine. Wine could drown a man’s sorrows but it could not nourish him, and Sansa, well, he could feast on her.

With his hands at her back, he pushed her gown lower and lower until he could pull it and her smallclothes off. Sansa reached for a blanket, making to cover herself.

“Little bird . . .”

She raised her eyes to his. “Stay right here,” he said.


	16. More

CHAPTER 16 – MORE

Sandor eased himself off of her and stood next to the bed. He undid the laces on his breeches and pulled them off with his smallclothes. Sansa lay on the bed below him as she had in his dreams. The corner of his mouth twitched. She may not want him to look but he wanted to drink her in. He’d seen her in silks and satins, wool and fur, but never naked. Her fair skin was polished by moonlight and flushed by fire. Sandor lowered himself to the bed and lay on his side, clothing her in his shadow once again.

Sansa turned on her side and put a hand to his chest, making small circles with the pads of her fingers. He took her wrist and brought her fingers to his nipple. She hardened it easily and after a moment’s hesitation, kissed it, brushing it with her tongue. Sandor closed his eyes and savored her touch, exhaling deeply.

“That feels good,” he said.

When she didn’t answer, Sandor opened his eyes. Sansa looked thoughtful. She leaned towards his chest again and suckled his nipple once more. “Like that?” she asked.

“Just like that,” he answered hoarsely.

Emboldened, Sansa moved over his chest, kissing him here and there. Her fingertips traced the contours of his muscles and the light touch of her fingernails brushing against his skin made him shiver. She kissed his neck, his cheek, his mouth. She smelled of mint and lavender. His blood seemed to rush to his groin.

Pressing his hand firmly against her skin, Sandor slid his hand down her back, cupping her bottom before angling his fingers between her legs. Sansa stiffened against him. He kissed her and gently probed her wetness. A sound escaped him as she brought one leg over his, allowing him greater access. Sliding a finger inside her, he was astonished at how wet she was already. He was so hard. “Seven hells,” he muttered. Slow, slow, slow. Putting a hand on her hip, Sandor gently pushed Sansa onto her back.

A quick glance at her face nearly undid him. There he saw desire. He kissed her roughly. Her lips, her neck, between her breasts, her belly. He looked up at her again to be sure. “Yes?” he rasped.

“Yes . . . yes,” Sansa said, her breasts rising and falling with her uneven breaths. She closed her eyes.

Sandor felt drunk. He was utterly awash in longing. He moved down the bed, separated her knees, and lowered his face to her womanhood. Gently at first, and then with more urgency, he moved his tongue over her. “Oh!” she said, surprised. Then, “Ohh,” longer, until it became a moan. Her knees fell to the side, opening herself more to him. His saliva and her fluids were absolutely soaking her. Sandor’s tongue lashed her again and again. He slid a finger inside her, and she clenched it, groaned, and raised her hips.

“Oh . . . mmm . . .” she murmured. Her hands were on his head, pulling him into her.

Sandor’s heart was pounding, his jaw was aching, his emotions were in chaos. She was here, with him, giving herself to him, and he could hardly believe it. He concentrated on the rhythm, and the feel and taste of her. Suddenly Sansa cried out, arching her back, thrashing away from him. Sandor caught hold of her, keeping contact with her moist flesh, until her passion subsided and she pushed against his shoulder with the back of her thigh. They were both out of breath. He looked up from between her legs. Her lips were parted, and it made him hungry to see them reddened from kissing him. She looked at him, embarrassed. “I . . .”

He wiped his mouth on his arm and moved on top of her, holding himself up on his forearms. He wanted to tell her there was nothing for her to be embarrassed about; that her response was everything he could ask for. The words could not seem to find a way to his mouth.

“I love you,” Sandor heard himself say. He froze. Shit. He tried to think of a way to retract his words. “That is . . .” There was nothing else. He looked down, unseeing.

Sansa hadn’t moved. “I love you, too,” she said quietly.

Sandor knew smiling did not improve his looks but he could not stop himself. He’d trade his life a thousand times over to hear her say it again.

“Your turn,” Sansa said, recalling him.


	17. Even More

CHAPTER 17 - EVEN MORE

For a wild moment, Sandor thought Sansa was suggesting that she please him in kind. Instead, she inched down the bed a little, reached between them, and took him into her hand. She stroked him and kissed his chest. 

I’m too tall, he thought vaguely.  
Within seconds his desire for her was again at a fever pitch. Slow, slow . . . no, not slow. He wanted her past restraint.  
“You’re sure?” he grunted.  
“Yes . . . just . . .”  
“I will,” he breathed, pushing up on his arms. He tried to concentrate as he positioned himself over her. Her soft, moist flesh did away with his feeble efforts. His mind was a tangle. He entered her slowly, resisting the urge to burrow into her as deeply as possible. Sansa tensed beneath him. He withdrew slightly, felt her relax, and then pressed forward some more. The warm, wet tightness of her was almost too much. He gritted his teeth. Sansa was quiet beneath him, her palms against his chest. Her silence unnerved him. Sandor pushed into her a little more deeply and heard a quick intake of her breath.  
“Little bird?” he said in a low voice.  
She exhaled slowly. He could feel her body release slightly. “Go on,” she said just loudly enough for him to hear.  
He kissed her gingerly, aware of her fluids on his lips. He slowly worked his hips forward and back. Gods. So tight. Once she had accepted all of him, he paused and looked down, questioning her with his eyes. Sansa's face showed discomfort but also trust, and she gave a slight nod, moving her hands over his chest to his shoulders. He withdrew most of his length and sunk back in slowly with a broken groan. Sansa shifted beneath him and he grunted, concentrating on the pull of her flesh as he moved within her. He buried his face in her hair and increased the tempo of his movements. He felt Sansa's belly against his, her breath on his neck, and her fingers holding tighter to his shoulders. Sandor knew he could not hold on much longer. His passion was building with the fury of a summer storm. Sansa was making small noises under him. He was lost in her, in the feel of her body beneath him, around him. Sweat broke out on his forehead and lower back. Their bodies rocked back and forth, her thighs squeezing against his hips. He lengthened his strokes, driving into her harder. Her breasts shook in time with his thrusts. He looked down at her and found her looking at him. She held his gaze and moaned. Sandor threw his head back and pumped his seed into her with a long, intense growl. Depleted by the force of his release, he collapsed onto her, muttering words of love and appreciation. Sansa clung to him, as sweaty and breathless as he was.  
After long moments, Sandor rolled off of her onto his back. He pulled Sansa to him and she rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped her in his arms and drowsily breathed in the scent of her hair. Slowly his heart rate returned to normal. The fire was dying now and the room had grown cool.  
“Are you alright?” Sandor finally asked, apprehensive of her response.  
“Yes,” she replied, snuggling against him. “Are you?”  
Sandor laughed quietly. “Yes, little bird, I’m fine.” He covered them both with a blanket and leaned back against a pillow. He lightly rubbed Sansa’s shoulder as small ripples of pleasure spread through his body. They lay together in companionable silence, Sansa’s small hand curled on his chest. After awhile, she rolled back to look at him drowsily.  
“Sandor?”  
“Mm?”  
“I’m glad you found me.”  
Sandor tightened his arms around her. After a few minutes, Sansa fell asleep. The pale blue moonlight highlighted the side of her forehead, her cheek and jaw, and the bridge of her nose. Like drifts of snow carved by the wind. There was an unfamiliar ache in his chest as she slept in his arms. Thank you, Sandor thought, to whichever gods were listening.


	18. The Next Morning

CHAPTER 18 - THE NEXT MORNING The next morning, Sandor awoke to filtered sunlight. The curtains over the window had been drawn, and the ones separating the alcove from the rest of the room remained closed. Golden dust motes floated in the air. He could hear faint sounds rising from the castle grounds but they seemed a world apart.

Sansa was curled into a ball, her hair in disarray. Sandor smiled to see it. He noticed she was wearing her gown again. She must have gotten up in the night. Suddenly aware of his nakedness, he eased out of bed and pulled his smallclothes on before padding into the privy, grabbing the bottle of mint liquid on his way. When he returned, Sansa was awake and she smiled up at him, a pretty blush spreading over her cheeks. He was struck anew by her loveliness and pulled back the covers, eager to take her in his arms again. His eye fell on spots of dried blood on the sheet. Surprise must have shown on his face because Sansa followed his gaze and a gasp escaped her lips. The pretty blush deepened into mortification.

“I . . . told you I’d never . . .”

Somewhere deep in his brain, Sandor realized she thought he’d doubted that she was a maid, but he had a more pressing concern.

“Girl, tell me if you’re hurt,” he said, his face darkening. The anxiety of causing her pain was at war with his desire to have her again.

“I am . . . I was, rather, a little sore,” Sansa said, then added hurriedly, as she saw his eyebrows draw together, “but . . . I’m told that’s normal . . . the first time . . . After that . . .” She looked down and seemed to cast about for more to say, her cheeks flaming. “I would tell you if I was hurt.”

He relaxed a little. “What about Clara?”

“Clara would never presume . . . but if she does, I’ll tell her it’s moonblood.”

Sandor nodded, discontented with the uncomfortable start to the day. _She just gave you her maiden’s gift and you stare at a few drops of blood like you’ve never seen it before._ He ground his teeth together.

Sansa seemed to sense his ire. She rose from the bed. “I’ll just be a minute.”

After she disappeared behind the screen, Sandor strode the length of the room, struggling to get himself under control. _Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her you didn’t doubt her maidenhood. Tell her you don’t care about the blood. Don’t say you don’t care. Fuck . . ._

When Sansa returned, he immediately stepped in front of her and enfolded her in his arms. She returned his embrace and he let out his breath.

“Sansa, I . . .” His thoughts deserted him. He’d had something to tell her and now his mind was blank. His mouth twitched. _Say something, halfwit._ “Last night was . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t. I just . . . I don’t think it could be avoided.”

Sandor was surprised she could be so indifferent to the pain but then remembered the way she’d absorbed blows from the scum on the Kingsguard without so much as a sound. He drove the memory away, focusing instead on reassuring her that it would not always be painful.

“The next time . . .” He would not presume to think the next time would be with him. “It will get better,” he finished, wishing he had something better to say.

“It wasn’t bad the first time,” she said, resting her cheek against his chest.

Sandor snorted.

"We leave tomorrow," Sansa observed after a minute.

"We do," he agreed, wondering what she was getting at. Then the weight of the words hit him. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they'd be leaving. Tomorrow they would be in the company of others every conceivable moment. Tomorrow he would be her sworn sword and nothing more. Tomorrow signaled the end of stealing away into the woods with her, of walking her to her chambers, of kissing her on the rooftop. Today, this morning, right now, it was probably all he'd have left with her. He pulled back and held her at arm's length. In the soft sunlight he could make out a faint darkness where her nipples were. She moved and the darkness was gone, and then the fabric settled over her skin and the suggestion of what lay beneath returned. He took the sides of her gown and, with small movements, twitched the fabric back and forth, making it swirl gently against her. Arousal and melancholy mixed within him.

Sansa looked at him, bemused, and began to ask, “What are you . . .” when he quickly scooped her up in his arms. He sat in the chair by the fireplace with her straddling him.

“Take your gown off,” he ordered huskily. Tomorrow they would leave on an uncertain journey that would require weeks of travel. If he was going to have only memories of her to warm his bed, he’d better get to making a few more.

“Sandor, in all this light? I’ll not flaunt myself like some . . . like a . . .”

“Yes, in all this light. I want to see you." He didn't wait for her to comply. Time was slipping away from him and too soon she would be gone. Sliding his hand up her thigh, he touched his thumb to the moist flesh between her legs. Sansa shifted in his lap, her hands on his shoulders. His thumb slid down her flesh and then very slowly up, separating the folds before settling on the sensitive nub at their apex. He began to make small circles with the pad of his thumb, his fingers pressing deeply into the crease of her leg.

Sansa’s breath quickened. She was watching his movements and making small adjustments with her hips to guide him. Reaching behind her, she gripped his knees and spread her legs a little wider. Sandor grinned at her wickedly, pleased beyond words that she was willing to indulge him. He wanted to lay her on the floor and . . . he couldn’t decide. He wanted both to taste her and to slide his length into her. He wanted to hear her cry out but make the moment last as long as possible. _Soon enough._

His thumb was gaining a sheen from her fluids. He looked up to see her head was tipped back, causing her hair to cascade behind her. The wantonness of the pose caused his jaw to fall open slightly, hunger for her overtaking him.

Sansa looked down, frustrated. “Don’t stop,” she said breathlessly.

Sandor hadn't realized he had. He resumed caressing her and she hastily drew her gown over her head and let it drop to the floor. Sandor sucked in his breath and said, "Yes," in a low rumble. She gripped his upper arms and leaned forward. The angle made it difficult to maintain contact but her breasts were pressed against his chest. He leaned into her. The soft fullness of her against his skin hardened him almost beyond endurance.

He grabbed her hips. “Little bird . . ."

Sansa looked at him, unfocused, panting. “Yes?”

Sandor lifted her and slid her body against his, the soft hair between her legs tickling his stomach, until her feet touched the floor. He wanted her to take charge, to please herself with him, but he found he couldn't bring himself to make the request, or even to hint at it. It's too soon, he thought, knowing the argument was void. _Craven._ He chuckled to himself. _At least you convinced her, even if you can't convince yourself._

Sansa leaned into him, her breasts gently buffeting his face. He caught hold of one and, opening his mouth wide, brought the soft flesh into his mouth, grazing her skin with his teeth until closing his lips over her nipple. “Oooh,” she breathed.

 Sansa smiled down at him. With a trace of shyness that set his blood surging, she lowered her hips until her flesh found him. Sandor held himself steady with one hand while guiding her hips with the other. Suddenly they were aligned and her lips parted to take him in. “Gods,” Sandor swore weakly as Sansa gripped his shoulders and slowly, slowly, slowly sank onto the length of him.

Once he was in her completely, she paused. She appeared to be concentrating. They were pressed together, groin to chest. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his. He could hear her breathing. She pressed against him and lifted her hips. She settled into a slow rhythm, gingerly taking him in. After several passes she exhaled, her warm breath stirring the hair on the side of his head. Sansa quickened her pace slightly, moving over him with less depth. Sandor kissed her and she rested her forehead against his, her blue eyes looking into his gray ones.

“Sandor . . .” She was out of breath.

He grunted in response, aware of her body in seemingly hundreds of ways at once and struggling to take it all in.

“I want you to . . .” she began to say.

Before she could finish, he cupped her bottom and stood, keeping himself within her. He crossed to the bed and lay down with her, catching the back of her knee in the crook of his elbow. He couldn’t stop himself from giving a few deep pumps, making Sansa gasp and cry out.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked roughly. The sound of her cries broke something loose inside him. The pent up desire he’d harbored for her ever since she'd cupped his cheek broke loose with a fury. She’d just been a girl then: pretty, proper, too good for him. He’d mocked her courtesies even as they’d drawn him in. Her fragile beauty hid a steel core and she would not be cowed even by him. Even after he’d abandoned her in King’s Landing, even after the endless winter, even after being in the clutches of the Lannisters and Littlefinger, she’d still given herself to him and he’d fucked her bloody after all. None of that was what she’d wanted. It was what he’d wanted, and, somehow, despite the miles, the years, the scars, he’d gotten it. She’d told him that she loved him and now she was beneath him, slippery with longing, filled with his cock, and Sandor could’ve laughed and cried, so ridiculously unbelievable was the whole situation. Time was against him, though. He needed to have her and have her and have her to make up for all the time he'd missed, and all the times the future would deny him. In his desperation to fully absorb each second, he truly felt only what he was missing. When he kissed her lips, he felt the absence of her cheek. When his hands clutched at her hips, the curves of her legs called to him. The more he tried to hold on, the weaker was his grip.

“Touch me . . .”

Sandor snapped back to the present and withdrew quickly, causing Sansa to grunt in displeasure. He stood. “Turn over.” Sansa looked unsure but rolled on to her belly. He pulled her hips up so she was on her knees. He wanted to enter her as quickly as possible but restrained himself. He slowly pushed into her.

“Alright?”

She rolled her hips up and back and nodded. Sandor reached around and parted the folds of her flesh with his middle finger. He rubbed her as he worked his hips back and forth. The slickness of her and the force of his thrusts made her flesh melt against his fingers. Sansa moaned. “Oh yes . . . more . . . more!”

Sandor concentrated as best he could while feeling his own peak gathering. Watching her body rock below him while his hand was drenched in her wetness . . . her auburn hair falling over her naked shoulder as she turned to watch him . . . the small cry she gave with each thrust . . . it was too much.

“Gods, little bird!” he growled. He grabbed her arse with both hands, his hips slapping against her, his balls briefly meeting her sticky flesh with each thrust. He tried to regain control. He pulled her hips back and ground against her. _Think about jousting._ It was too late. “I can’t . . .” His need for release could not be stopped. Sandor pounded against her, each second bringing him closer and closer to completion. He growled and held Sansa’s hips as still as he could while driving into her, wanting nothing to interrupt the rapidly approaching and deeply intense climax that was moments away. As he felt himself go over the edge, he relaxed just slightly, giving himself up to the surging release. He groaned loudly as the energy left his body with his seed. He wanted to empty himself into her until there was nothing left.

Panting, he collapsed on to the bed. Let the world fracture around him, he simply did not care. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years. After a long moment he caught his breath and realized he’d been selfish. Sansa still knelt beside him, her eyes bright with excitement. He pulled her down next to him and brought his hand between her legs. “I’m sorry, little bird." After a moment, more to himself, he added, "We have so little time.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes as he rubbed her firmly. He feverishly worked to bring her to a climax. Sansa grabbed handfuls of the sheets and pressed her breasts skyward as she writhed beneath his hand. Her jagged breaths and small moans increased in intensity. She was soaked and Sandor felt a stirring in his loins as he realized he was rubbing his seed into her. A few seconds later, Sansa cried out and Sandor redoubled his efforts, wanting her to experience a release as intense as his own. Her hips rose and she gave a high whine as her passion expended itself. Sansa fell back to the bed, breathless. Sandor let her rest for a minute or two before he began to rub her again, keeping to the same rhythm.

A questioning look flashed across her face but she was powerless to put voice to it. Her second climax came over her more quickly and she twisted under his large hand, almost breaking free from his touch. He saw her through to the end and watched with satisfaction as she caught her breath again.

After a minute she said, “I didn’t know that could happen.”

Sandor grinned. “Now you do.” And with that, sated, he promptly fell asleep.


	19. A Long Talk

CHAPTER 19 – A LONG TALK

Sometime later, Sandor awoke feeling more content than he ever had. Sansa’s bed was soft and deep, and a perfume of lavender and their lovemaking wafted on the warm air. Stronger sunlight was beating against the curtains. Sandor didn’t want to move. There was nothing outside of his little bird’s nest that held even the slightest interest for him.

As Sansa’s sworn shield, it had fallen to him to coordinate the fighting men who would depart with them for Winterfell. Sansa, of course, had requested that special protection be arranged for the women and children traveling in their party but Sandor had dismissed that idea immediately. She was the only one worth protecting and his arrangements reflected his opinion. Sandor had insisted on training sessions for the men, drilling them on various styles of attack and defense, educating them on the terrain they would cover, and insisting on improvement in their horsemanship. The final session was scheduled for early afternoon.

Right now, though, he didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to stay in Sansa's bed, naked, and make love to her until his strength failed. The thought of pulling mail over the shoulders she’d so lately been gripping as she’d made love to him (to him!) left him cold. Bugger that. They can take my mail and throw it in the river.

Suddenly the she-wolf’s face came to his mind. He hadn’t seen her throw Joffrey’s sword in the river but he’d heard the tale often enough. He hadn’t paid Arya any mind then, but after kidnapping her and subsequently fending off her attempts to kill him, he could picture the incident on the riverbank with what he felt was accuracy. He chuckled to himself and missed the wild young girl for a moment. How could dour Ned Stark have raised either of them? Sandor doubted he would ever know. There will be no shortage of ghosts at Winterfell . . .

With a sigh he sat up. Sansa was at her dressing table, singing softly and brushing her long hair. Sandor padded over to her and kissed the top of her head. She smiled up at him and looked so happy that he could only squeeze her shoulder in return.

After making use of her wash basin and privy, Sandor got dressed. Sansa sat next to him on the bed as he pulled on his boots. When he could delay no longer, he put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her. "I'll see you at dinner," he rasped. She nodded and he walked to her door with the resolve of one about to plunge into ice-cold water.

*

The afternoon dragged. Sandor was restless and distracted, and irritated with himself for being so. The men were not as improved as he would've liked. They'd never protect Sansa like he would so their efforts could not but fall short. After a few terse words, all joking ceased. Had Sandor been in a more judicious frame of mind, he would've acknowledged that had the men fought as though they loved Sansa, he would've been mad with jealousy and that would've irritated him, too. But he was not, and they did not, so he growled orders and cast dark looks over the yard.

A feeling of unease sat in the middle of Sandor's chest. He was unused to getting what he wanted and, now, having had a taste of it, he was unsure he could bear to have it withheld from him. He loved Sansa. He was sure of it. Her beauty was what first caught his notice, yes, but her honesty, strength, and tender heart set her apart from every woman he'd ever known.

His mind drifted to the young lord at the dance. There will be others even more rich, more powerful. And you'll have to stand aside and let one of them take her away from you. He squeezed the pommel of his sword as though it were the young man's throat. She said she loved you. The thought set a thousand winged things to flapping inside his chest. He wanted very much to believe that she'd meant it, that she hadn't just said it because he'd been fool enough to blurt it out first.

You can't marry her. What would you offer her? Your brother's keep, where he committed gods-know-what atrocities? That's no place for her. Or you. All you can do is help her reclaim and hold Winterfell - the very thing that will net her a lordly husband.

He thought of their lovemaking. He didn't regret it but any child resulting from it would be disastrous. As far as he knew, he'd never fathered a child. He assumed whores drank moon-tea regularly. Moon-tea . . . But how to get some? And how to convince Sansa to drink it? Sandor felt completely out of his depth. Maybe Clara . . . ? No, she would not risk her own reputation to seek it and there was no way she'd assume it was for anyone but Sansa. Sandor was not known to associate with any women in the Vale. He'd not been with a whore since finding Sansa. How then? 

Then another thought struck him. Maybe she's drunk it already. The idea of her purging his seed from her body made Sandor very uncomfortable. It smacked of rejection, and a duplicity of which he did not think Sansa capable.

Still.

*

Hours later, at dinner, Sansa sensed his mood.

"Are you tired, my lord? I know you and the men were practicing fiercely in the yard," Sansa said as they ate.

Sandor took a long drink of wine and looked at her over the rim of his glass. "There was a lot of practicing." He would not worry her by giving voice to his beliefs that the men going with them would probably run at the first sign of trouble. That was not the thorn in his side. He would protect her. He didn't know how to broach the subject of his concern, though, and wasn't given an opportunity to, anyway. Sandor went to bed that night and slept fitfully for a few hours before giving up and leaving his room.

Feeling a need to be in open air, he climbed the stairs to the roof. As he emerged from the stairwell, he saw Sansa gazing over the parapet, wrapped in a cloak. The moon bathed her in pallid light.

She turned and, seeing him, gasped. "Sandor! What are you doing here?"

He walked to her side, rested his forearms on the top of the parapet, and looked over the side to the dark ground far below. "I couldn't sleep, and you shouldn't be wandering the castle at night unprotected."

"I didn't want to wake you."

"That's what sworn shields are for, little bird. How long have you been up here?"

"I don't know. Maybe an hour. Why can't you sleep?"

Sandor looked at her for a long moment. Out with it. "Because I swore to protect you but instead I put you in danger."

"You couldn't have known. I'll send for you next time I want to walk at night."

"No, little bird, I put you in danger last night when I came to your room."

Sansa shook her head slightly, not comprehending.

The words tasted sour on his tongue so he spat them out. "I'll find a way to get you some moon-tea."

She recoiled, stunned. "What? What need would I . . . oh." Her disbelieving expression was replaced with one of digust. "You'd have me . . ."

"I'd have you save yourself."

"For what?" She looked at him, hurt and angry. "All of Westeros believes my marriage to Lord Tyrion was consummated."

Sandor had grown so used to having her to himself that he'd forgotten about the Imp. The corner of his mouth twitched. "A septa could prove . . ."

"I will not allow it!" she hissed, keeping her voice down though tears sprang to her eyes. "I will not be violated by . . . so others . . . how could you suggest such a thing??"

Sandor groaned inwardly. This is going worse than last time. He had to make her see reason. "Because the child would be a bastard."

"That would depend on the father, wouldn't it?" She glared at him. 

Seven hells. I can't marry you. You know that. "You're too valuable . . ."

She cut him off. "My claim is too valuable, you mean. I'm well aware it's my claim men want. Most men, anyway."

"Little bird, most men want power and a pretty wife to fuck after they've used that power. With you they'd get both. Your husband won't want a bastard under foot."

Sansa's shoulders fell and she let out a breath. "I have no intention of naming myself Queen of the North."

"You wouldn't have to. There are plenty of lords who would be all too happy to be Warden of the North in your place. All you'd have to do is marry one." Sandor was angry with himself. All he'd meant to do was save her from an inopportune pregnancy and now he was arguing politics with her in the middle of the night. Why did his attempts to help her always have to go so wrong?

Sansa looked at him glumly. The fight had left her and she looked tired. "I can't marry anyway unless my marriage to Lord Tyrion is annulled, or he's proven dead."

He said nothing. The silence between them stretched out for several moments.

"I won't drink moon-tea." Her tone was final.

"Then what will you do if I've gotten you with child?"

"I'll pray to the Seven that it's healthy, and that I don't die in childbed."

Fear jabbed an icy fingertip into Sandor's stomach. He shifted, willing the thought away.

After a long moment, Sansa spoke again. "What will you do?"

I'll love its mother.

She looked at him expectantly. He heaved a sigh. He wanted to tell her to send him away, to forget about the previous night and all of the time they'd spent together since he'd arrived in the Vale. But he couldn't. He just wanted her. If she had his child, so be it, so long as he could have her.

"Sansa, I'll do whatever you want." It was an inadequate answer and he knew it, even before she pulled in the corner of her mouth and gave him a look.

"You like children. I remember you with the boys in the yard. And with George. And what you told me of your time with Arya. You were kind to me in King's Landing, too. I was just a child then. You were kind to Joffrey, Tommen, and Marcella, as well. Surely you'd love your own child . . ."

"I never thought I'd have a child," he said on the gust of an exhale. He turned to look at her. "Sansa, this thing with the moon-tea . . . I don't want to damage your honor . . ."

"Sandor, having your child, and having you acknowledge that child, would ruin all prospects for another marriage for me . . ."

Sandor's blood ran cold. Disbelief was impeding his ability to think straight.

"I was fairly certain I did not wish to marry again after Lord Tyrion. I'm going north because I have nowhere else to go. I have no wish to rule but rule I will if it means keeping those who would control me at bay. I meant it when I said I'm glad you found me. There's no one I've thought about or wished for more than you. I want you with me. If you've gotten me with child, well . . . there's no one else's I'd rather have." 

Sandor's heart started to beat again and the buzzing in his head subsided. He stared at her. Sansa's boldness seemed to falter, though she went on.

"Did . . ." She took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Did you mean it when you said you love me?" The question was addressed to Sandor's feet.

Still too stunned to reply immediately, Sandor was silent. Sansa looked up, the pain on her face rending him. "Yes," he rasped. "Yes, I meant it."

Sansa gave a nod. "It's better to be born from love than . . . from just marriage, isn't it?"

Sandor was not at all certain of anything beyond the suggestion that she loved him in return. "Aye," he answered automatically. "But you wanted to be married once . . ."

"Yes, and now that I've been both married and a bastard, I know which one I'd choose again."

"Aye but you were forced to be both. One day you might want a noble husband . . ."

"I've found that nobility has nothing to do with birth."

Sandor made a noncommittal noise in response.

Sansa continued, "You're right, though. If ever I do want to marry again, I'll want to marry a noble man. A man who loves and protects me. A man who sees Winterfell as a home, not a seat of power. A man who's honest and loyal, who's kind to children and animals, even if they're direwolves! The animals, not the children." A smile crept across Sansa's lips. 

Sandor laughed. "That's a lot to ask of one man, little bird."

Sansa grinned. "For such a man I might even sing now and again. I'd be a good wife."

Sandor roared with laughter. "That you would. And how will you choose between all of the noble men who will ask for your hand once they know you'll sing for them?"

"I'll choose the one who sees me as something more than the key to the North. He would spend time with me and get to know me, what I like, what I think . . ."

"He'd be a lucky man, little bird."

Sansa took his arm and leaned against him. He rested his hand over hers and they looked out into the night together.

After a while, Sansa asked about the arrangements for the next day. Sandor told her what he'd planned, and where they would likely stop that night. He'd sent some scouts ahead and expected a raven back in the morning. She had a few more questions and then Sandor took her hand and led her back to her room.

They paused at her door and then both spoke at once. "I love you." They laughed together and shared a lingering kiss before Sandor returned to his own room to sleep soundly until dawn.


	20. The Handkerchief

CHAPTER 20 – THE HANDKERCHIEF

 

The morning of their departure dawned clear and bright. Sandor packed the last of his few belongings into a trunk and told his squire it was ready to be taken to the courtyard where the party's baggage was being assembled. He met Sansa at her room and together they walked to the hall to break their fast. She clung to his arm and confided in a rush, "Sandor, I'm nervous! There are so many people going! It's a long trip and there's no telling what will happen."

"There's no telling what will happen to them but nothing will happen to you. I'll keep you safe."

She stopped walking and said shyly, "I have something for you."

Sandor had not been given a gift since the woodcarver set up shop beneath his father's keep. He could not imagine what she thought he could want - besides her.

Sansa reached into her pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief. He opened the square of fabric and his eye was caught by the colors of his house. Embroidered in small, neat stitches in the center of the cloth was a deep yellow S in a bold script. The S was framed by a black box that, upon closer inspection, proved to be made up of two swords and two sewing needles, each glinting gray. The edges of the handkerchief were worked in rich colors, each depicting a different scene anchored by a small icon in the corner. In one corner was an apple surrounded by a miniature grove of weirwood trees, Stranger and Sugar among them. Below the scene was a dark green border. “The green is your blanket,” Sansa explained.

Sandor nodded, transfixed by the detail. He turned the cloth and the weirwoods gave way to the outline of castle crenellations below a field of tiny stars. A small lantern glowed in the corner. The gray border, he supposed, was the bench they’d sat on the night they first kissed. Another turn revealed little clumps of snowbells growing above a border of arrows. In that corner was a tree with a target tied to it. Sandor smiled to see Sansa had sewn a small arrow in the tree’s trunk.

He turned the handkerchief to look at the final side. In the corner a little red bird sat with a gray dog wearing an olive green cloak. Musical notes floated from the bird’s open yellow beak along the edges of the fabric. The border was comprised of the words of the Mother's hymn, done in a pretty script. _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray / Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

_The first song you sang to me._

“Do you like it?”

Sandor found he was unable to speak, so large was the lump in his throat. He nodded, carefully folding the handkerchief and slipping it into his tunic, over his heart. He took her hands and kissed her gently. He had no words to express what he was feeling so he said, “I have something for you, too.”

 “You do?” Sansa's eyes widened in delight.

“Yes but it’s in my saddlebag. I’ll give it to you before we leave,” Sandor answered, cursing himself for not storing it where it could be revealed more privately.

After breaking their fast, Sansa wanted to visit the sept to pray before they left. She and Sandor walked there in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. There was a low hum inside the sept as others, both travelers and Vale residents, made their supplications to the Seven. Sansa walked directly to the Mother's altar, lit a candle, and closed her eyes in prayer. Sandor stood close to a wall and looked around. Some of the folk were on their knees, begging for what, Sandor could not imagine. Others were gazing at the faces of the icons, most in silence, a few with lips moving in murmured prayer.

It seemed to him that everyone wanted something from these wooden gods. Sandor's eye fell on Sansa, and he realized he wanted something, too. He began a slow circuit of the room, moving first to the Warrior's shrine. Sandor asked him for strength so that he might protect his little bird. He bypassed the Crone, finding he had nothing to say to her, and the Father, feeling his association with justice was a jape. He asked the Smith to be with them as they rebuilt Winterfell. With a slight smirk, he added a request that Rogald be given a better apprentice than he, preferably one who was also deaf. Sandor lit a candle at the Maiden's altar, and thanked her for protecting Sansa's maidenhood. I don’t know how you managed it, between the Imp and Littlefinger. His feelings would not have been diminished if Sansa had not been a maid, but receiving her maiden's gift, freely given, felt nothing short of miraculous. At the Mother's altar, Sandor asked that she watch over Sansa and protect any children she might have. Last, he stood in front of the Stranger and said a prayer for his horse. When he was done, Sandor turned around to find Sansa and saw that she was standing near the door, waiting for him with a small smile on her lips.

Sandor felt cleansed, somehow, and lighter. He walked with Sansa out of the sept and into the sunlight.


	21. Sandor's Gift

CHAPTER 21 – SANDOR’S GIFT

 

The bustle in the courtyard intensified when Sansa arrived. Sandor motioned to his squire to bring Stranger forward, next to Sugar, who Lord Robert had given to Sansa as a gift. Sansa kissed her cousin goodbye for the last time and joined Sandor. “I suppose we have to leave now,” she said with a short, nervous laugh.

“Not yet.” He retrieved her gift from his saddlebag.

They stood between the horses; Sandor’s back providing coverage from the main party at their rear. Into Sansa’s hands he placed a short, narrow tree branch, the base of which was wrapped in wet cloth, covered in leather.

“Thank you,” she said, although her confusion was obvious.

“Jamison calls it a ‘cutting.' It’s from a lemon tree. It'll grow in the glass gardens at Winterfell so you can have lemon cakes.”

Sansa looked at the cutting with skepticism. “But, that will take years . . .”

Sandor raised her chin with his fingertips. He looked into her eyes a moment and said, “Aye.”

A smile broke out across Sansa's face as she cradled the cutting close to her, and contentment spread through Sandor Clegane with the all warmth of wine.

THE END


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